The Good Doctor
by xdeathberry
Summary: AU. John Watson is a uniquely ethical "mercenary" called 'The Doctor' who is hired out for jobs at night. By day, he's an ordinary trauma doctor working an ordinary job. But then everything changes when he is framed for murder. The police and an unknown enemy are after his head, but the only one who can help save him is none other than...Sherlock Holmes?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**The Good Doctor  
Chapter 1**

**The Beginning**

* * *

"No, please, don't kill me!" a rather large man cowered on the floor of an abandoned warehouse, facing his unknown attacker and begging for mercy. Footsteps echoed throughout the desolate building as the figure slowly drew near. The man heard a click resonate and widened his eyes. His attacker had stolen his gun when he was ambushed from behind earlier. Tonight was most likely the day he was going to die. By his own gun too.

"Don't be stupid. I'm not going to kill you. Just taking out the bullets," he heard the stranger say. "By the way, thanks for the gun," the figure added. The scared man had no idea what the other man looked like as his attacker expertly managed to stay hidden within the shadows. The large man scrambled up from the ground and swung his head around, attempting to sense where the other was. He felt like an animal, trapped while his predator slowly circled his prey from the shadows.

He panicked and and threw his two black briefcases onto the floor. "You can have it! Take it. Take it all. Please, just don't kill me," he shouted, sweat streaming down his face.

The unknown man chuckled and responded,"No, I don't want your drugs. But, what I do want to know is this: how many people, would you say, died because of your drugs? How many family members suffered, felt pain because the one they love OD'ed on the filth you put out on the streets?"

The large man was sweating profusely at this point. "I'm just a dealer. I don't make the rules!" he shakily responded.

"Right. So the hordes of people dying every day...they're not your responsibility at all. You just sell them poison," he said sarcastically, still circling the drug dealer.

Suddenly, the large man was attacked from behind. The figure knocked him over, forcing him to collapse. He stuck a black cloth bag on the now whimpering man and proceeded to tie his hands together. He moved on to the ankles, making sure the ropes were securely tightened. The stranger then dug through the drug dealer's pockets, took the man's cell phone, and then grabbed the remaining rope, tossing it over one of the rafter beams in the ceiling a few times and pulled, forcing the man's body to ascend a few feet off the floor.

"Help! Stop!" the large man futilely cried, the black cloth muffling his screams. The intruder secured the rope around a conveyer belt that had stopped functioning for years.

"Hope you enjoy prison," the stranger said, dialing 999 after opening the briefcases and placing them below the man's head. He held the phone up to his ear to confirm that it was dialing and left it on the conveyer belt, walking away and leaving the squirming drug-dealing scum dangling upside down from the ceiling as the police rushed towards him.

* * *

"Warrington," Sherlock said as he neared the crime scene after exiting the cab and saw a black-haired average looking man. It was dark at night, but they had set up flood lights for visibility as the area was rarely visited so the city had refused to place any sort of street lights anywhere.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the inspector asked as he lifted the yellow tape for the tall dark-haired man, "I'm Detective Inspector Warrington from narcotics. I had Lestrade call in a favor. This isn't any normal case. It's, well, odd," he explained.

Sherlock nodded and started walking. "I assume we're dealing with the same man here as the last two cases. Otherwise you wouldn't have called me as this isn't even a case at all," he said as he led the way into the warehouse. A couple of policemen were manning the door and immediately slid open the heavy doors as soon as they saw the unruly-haired consulting detective approaching.

Sherlock approached the conveyor belt in the center of the room and looked at the scene before him. The forensics were busy dusting for fingerprints and bagging all the evidence.

"How'd you know about the other cases? We hadn't even released the full stories to the press yet," Warrington asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored him. He continued to survey the crime scene.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something glinting. Interesting, he thought. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled on his gloves. He bent down and picked up the object, identifying it as a bullet.

"A .45. Intact, meaning it was unused. Obviously,'" he said as he continued to stare at it. "You're dealing with a man with very strong morals," he said.

Warrington scratched his head. "How'd you reckon?" he asked.

Sherlock practically shoved the small bullet up his nose. "The bullet."

The DI stared back at him with a blank face, causing the consulting detective to shift his head to the right out of annoyance. He turned his head back towards the inspector who stood in front of him.

"The bullet. It's intact, meaning the man who did this must have been in contact with a gun at some point, either his own or perhaps taken from the drug dealer you found here an hour ago. However, the man you found merely had a few bumps on his head as you informed me on the phone earlier, meaning that whoever did this had no intention of killing. We are dealing with some sort of vigilante, perhaps. Definitely not a family member or friend of anyone who's ever died from his drugs as that sort of thing spurs emotion, most likely rage which isn't the case in this instance. Same MO as the other two cases. Two criminals, left immobilized as the police is called, leading to their inevitable arrest. No traces of DNA. Obviously you know it has to have been a man as the evidence suggests a person of enough strength to physically deal with grown men. Could be multiple people working together, but in most cases, vigilante acts like this suggests singular. One person. One man. Quick. Clean. Simple. Less likely to get caught. Seems like a hobby of some sort as all cases occurred late at night which could be explained by a man who has a regular day job. Could also be explained by darkness giving cover, but judging by the time consistencies, the former seems to be the better fit. With that pieced together, I'd say male, mid twenties at the very least, but definitely older, works a regular job, and is tired of the world either by age or what he's seen and wants to take matters into his own hands. Now, if you excuse me, I need to get back to my experiments," he concluded.

Warrington stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. "Lestrade said you'd be like this, but, bloody hell. I had no idea. How did you know all that?" he asked.

"It's all in the evidence," Sherlock said as he walked out of the warehouse.

* * *

John yawned as an intern ran up to him waving the morning paper. "Doctor Watson, have you seen the paper today? They found another one!" the gangly boy excitedly said. "He's like Batman or something!" John turned his head towards him mid-yawn and took the paper from him.

"Oh, hello, Andrew. Let's see here, 'Drug-Dealer Arrested; Vigilante Strikes Again?'" he read aloud. He quickly scanned the article which didn't say much. The journalist just went over what little information Scotland Yard had released to the media, speculating if the whole thing was the work of a rival drug-dealing gang or a vigilante-type of person.

John yawned again and blinked his eyes several times to clear them of the tears that had formed.

"Had a late night out, huh, doctor?" the intern smiled at John. Doctor Watson was Andrew's favorite person on the entire hospital staff. He was even thinking of switching to trauma, following the good doctor's footsteps. There was something about him that just made Andrew admire him; he exuded something Andrew couldn't pinpoint, but he always felt like John had a bigger presence than what he appeared to look like.

John smiled and said, "Ah, no, not really. Just extra tired from all the excitement we've had the past few weeks."

Andrew nodded. "If you'd like, I can get you some tea," he offered. John nodded, uttering a small thanks as the boy rushed off towards the cafeteria. He was a nice kid, John thought. Reminded him of himself before he went to the military. Being exposed to that kind of stuff really changes you.

He headed over to the clinic from the emergency centre. It was a rather slow morning, so the head of trauma had asked him to take over clinic duties as they were having a bit of a shortage that month. He had no choice but to agree, but luckily, it was a slow morning there as well. John opened the door on the far right and walked in, yawning again. He got on his computer and logged on. He checked the time. "9:45...it should be in by now," he mumbled to himself. He checked his off-shore bank account and squinted. Ah, there it was. £40,000.

"Doctor Watson?" Andrew called out as he opened the door. John slightly jumped and quickly exited the browser. "I've been looking for you at the trauma centre," the intern said as he handing over the tall styrofoam cup containing tea.

"Ah, sorry about that," John said, "It was a bit slow so I was asked to go on clinic duty."

Andrew shook his head. "No worries. I'll leave you to it then, sir," he said as he closed the door behind him. John raised his cup in thanks and sipped it. Today was going to be another long day, he thought.

* * *

**A/N:**

Greetings, everyone!  
This story popped into my head when I was trying to sleep yesterday (always happens to me. Don't you hate that?) and I got so excited, I had to write it. Haha  
So, this means I'm working on two active fics, but they balance each other out as they follow similar formats.  
This one is supposed to be a bit darker than Parallel. I've been itching to write normal versions of John and Sherlock. Er. Well, as normal as this fic is gonna get.

Sorry the chapter is short, but I felt like the first chapter should be just a quick introduction.  
No worries. My imagination is running rampant with this one. I've been having a bit of trouble with Parallel, so this is just something to get my mind going.

Be on the lookout for more Sherlock drabbles. For some reason, it's so easy to write him (maybe because we're more similar than I'd like to admit) and kind of difficult to write John (whom I thought I was similar to. haha), but I think I'm gonna take a shot at that sometime. Or something like that.

Thank you for reading! :)


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**The Good Doctor**  
**Chapter 2**  
**  
Memories**

* * *

"Clear!" John yelled for the second time as he held the defibrillators from the crash trolley (crash cart), ready to jumpstart his patient's heart which had just flatlined. She had been in a car that had been T-boned by a truck in an intersection and was rushed into the centre, bloody and clinging onto life. The assisting nurses and doctors all held their hands up. He shocked the area near her upper left chest and her lower right rib. "Come on, don't do this!" John muttered.

Her body heaved upwards, but her heart gave no response.

"Raise the charge!" he yelled. One of the nurses immediately turned the dial up on the manual defibrillator.

"Clear!" he yelled again, repeating his actions.

No response.

"Again!" he ordered, and tried once more.

Still no response.

"Doctor Watson, I don't think..." a nurse by the door began.

John tiredly looked up at the clock, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his yellow static-resistant gown's right sleeve.

"Time of death, 22:23. Contact her next of kin."

* * *

Andrew silently handed over a cup of tea to console the exhausted doctor who gladly accepted it. They sat on a bench in the hospital's lobby, not really saying a word as the hospital went about its hustle and bustle. John really needed a break. The patient that died just a few moments ago was the fourth one that night.

"Doctor Watson, I think you should take the night off," the intern suggested. John was thinking of taking off anyway as it was evident that he was bordering complete exhaustion. If he worked any longer, he could become a liability.

"Yes, i think you're right. Any more of this and I may have to check into the hospital as a patient myself," he tiredly joked. He took a sip of the warm earl grey tea and closed his eyes which were encased in dark circles due to lack of sleep. Luckily, he hadn't been hired for anything tonight. Otherwise, he would have to call in sick tomorrow. _Actually, that's not such a bad idea, _he thought. His double life was taking its toll, but he didn't mind. Not at all.

xxxx

After leaving Andrew, John went to change out of his scrubs when someone entered the room.

"Oh hey, John. Leaving already?" Doctor Wyatt, head of neurology asked. John looked up.

"Hm? Oh yeah. It's been hectic today," he replied as Roger began to change into his normal clothes as well. The army veteran finished putting on his pants, grabbed his wallet, and started shoving it in his pocket when his coworker asked, "Fancy grabbing a pint at Pete's Bar? Alice and Dom are going."

John shook his head while giving a slight chuckle. "No, thank you. I don't think my body can handle another night out," he responded.

Wyatt smirked. "You must be getting out there, aren't you Watson? Haven't had a night out with your fellow doctors in a while, yet you're tired all the time. Lucky gals." He winked and grabbed his things, leaving John with a slight face of disbelief. Is that what his coworkers thought he was doing? He laughed and proceeded to collect this things, walked out, hailed down a taxi, and tried very hard not to fall asleep en route.

Running out of energy, the blond entered his small flat after fumbling with his keys and immediately plopped himself on his uncomfortable bed, foregoing changing into comfortable clothes. Tonight was a free night. He didn't have anything to do, which he was grateful for. He sighed as he stared up at the ceiling, laying in silence as the drone of the fan above his head mesmerized him. There was a slight hitch in the fan as the blades spun around and around; his eyelids felt heavy...

"_Captain! John! Grab my hand!" a voice said above him. John was disoriented. The last thing he remembered was covering for a soldier when he felt an immense pain tear through his shoulder. He grunted in pain and raised his arm, feeling something wet and warm spread as someone tugged his good arm a few times and finally dragged him away from the battleground just as a bomb exploded near the vicinity, showering them with dirt._

"_Damn it, Watson, don't do this!" the voice said above all the noisy bullets as John's head lolled around slightly, his consciousness beginning to fade. He couldn't see who it was as his vision was beginning to blur. He heard something rip, then winced as the soldier tied a piece of cloth very tightly around his bullet wound. "Get up!" the man ordered him. The doctor couldn't think straight and blindly attempted to follow what the man was saying to him. He staggered onto his feet and was led away, leaning on his savior._

John awoke, gasping for air. His eyes teared up and he abruptly sat up to grasp his leg. It felt like someone had stabbed him and the scar on his shoulder began to burn; the pain was unbearable. He looked around for the painkillers he hadn't used and attempted to locate them without success. He then awkwardly slid his leg off the bed and stumbled a bit as his other foot hit the ground. "Where are you..." he muttered as he hurriedly opened the drawer on the nightstand next to his bed in the dark and blindly shuffled through all the junk he kept there. He threw out an empty bottle over his shoulder, found another one, and shook it. It was empty. He knew he had at least a couple more pills somewhere. It had been a while since he needed it, but it was urgent as the pain was increasing with each second. His fingertips grazed another cylindrical bottle and he grabbed it. Much to his satisfaction, he heard a slight rattle as he lifted it, indicating that there was something left. He hastily opened it, poured it in his hand, and dry-swallowed a single pill.

He fell backwards onto his bed with his arm still extended down to rest upon his leg and closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing to take his mind off the pain. After a few minutes, he slowly opened them and stared at the ceiling above him once again. The blades of the fan continued to whir as if nothing had happened. He hated when he dreamt of the war. The things he saw were things that no human should ever be allowed to witness. As a soldier _and _ a doctor, John saw more horrifying things than he should have. He wasn't proud of some of the things he had to do while serving...which made his work all the more important.

It was his chance for redemption.

* * *

"Sherlock," Mycroft greeted his younger brother who sat across from him, holding his violin and absentmindedly strumming it as a warm fire crackled behind the older Holmes sibling.

"Mycroft," he replied with a nod.

"So, little brother, have you found a flat yet?" he asked.

Sherlock continued to stare into space. "No. Mycroft, do skip the small talk and get to the point. Surely there must be a reason for you visit other than inquiring about my domestic situation," he said.

Mycroft frowned. "Just visiting, Sherlock. Must I have an ulterior motive?" He glanced around the small flat his brother was currently inhabiting alone. There were countless books, beakers, bottles of chemicals, and documents strewn all over the floor and desks. There was a small model skull lying abandoned on the floor. "Although, I must say, you could do with a bit of cleaning up."

Sherlock shifted his eyes towards his older brother. "If you're here because of my consulting work on the recent string of so called 'vigilante' acts, I have nothing to tell you," he stated.

"No need to be curt. By the way, have you finished working the Remington case?"

The younger Holmes scoffed. "It's obvious the maid did it."

"Mm, yes, of course. Quite obvious. Would take a fool not to realize," his brother replied as Sherlock absently nodded in agreement. The case had completely flown over Lestrade's head, but with one swift look at the crime scene and a few minutes speaking with each family member and employee, the younger Holmes quickly realized the maid had murdered Sir Remington. Mycroft, on the other hand, was sharper than Sherlock, but refused to do the legwork to back up his deductions, unlike his younger sibling.

"I would advise you to find a place quickly, Sherlock. Living alone is not doing you any good. And your flat is far from St. Bart's," the older Holmes said in a concerned tone. Sherlock stared at the burning logs ahead, not giving a reply.

"Who would want me as a flatmate?" he asked.

* * *

Somewhere in Sunbury, a lone man sat on the edge of his bed, staring emptily out the window as the faint moonlight streamed through his bedroom, encasing him in a cold glow of light. He held his phone in his lifeless hand, ignoring the continuous dialling tone. It had been thirty minutes since he received the call. After a moment's pause, he choked back a sob. Tears began to stream down his face.

His wife was dead.

His wife was murdered.

* * *

John sat at his kitchen table, eating a bit of toast and jam. He called in sick that morning because frankly, he just didn't feel like going into work. He lied and said he caught the flu, when in reality, he was perfectly fine, minus the waves of pain in his leg. It had dulled down quite a bit from yesterday night, but he still had to pop a pill every now and then to keep from going insane, although luckily, the pain in his shoulder had stopped. For once in about a month, he actually got to sleep in until noon. He lazed around for hours until he became a bit peckish and decided it was time to eat.

He picked up the paper that had arrived that morning and scanned the front page. There, in the center, was a picture of a lanky fellow with the most unruly mop of dark curls he had ever seen that looked like it was snapped at the very last minute. The man in the photograph appeared to have been taking great lengths to avoid the camera. He scanned the article, something about solving a murder or something of the sort, lost interest, and turned directly to the classified ads.

"'D'..." he muttered while scanning the ads. "Ah, there we are." John found a small advertisement under 'Doctor Wanted'. The ad contained nothing more than an email address the statement. _"Need help"._

He immediately opened his laptop which was situated on the table before him, and began to send an untraceable email to the address listed. He had picked up a few tricks along the way, even though he really wasn't tech-savvy. His typing speed was atrocious, but he knew how to make himself untraceable and was able to bury any electronic trail. As for his senders, well, they may not have the knowledge to use a disposable email, but it didn't matter because he was able to disguise his IP address and all information related to one John H. Watson. It wasn't his problem if his client got caught hiring a mercenary.

'_There are three barrels of wine' _ he sent. Now, all he had to do was wait for a reply.

He continued to flip through the paper and stopped on a short article that caught his titled '_Britain in Chaos'_. He quickly read through it and started laughing. Apparently, according to the columnist, Britain was in chaos because of John:

_"With the actions of an unknown person performing illegal acts, one must wonder where the law resides with these recent acts of illegal deeds brought to light by this so called, 'vigilante'. Is the evidence suitable to convict someone or press charges if all pieces of evidence were discovered and publicized by another illegal act? Surely the trail that the evidence leaves could very well be tampered with. Two wrongs certainly don't make a right. Perhaps these bad citizens are merely framed for something worse. Politicians, students, normal citizens being accused of such atrocities in which the public gives faith to an unknown person. Something is not right. Who is this 'vigilante' to play God? One person cannot be responsible for serving justice..."_

The article went on and on, causing the doctor to snort. Was this columnist serious?

Suddenly, his phone rang, startling him. He looked at the screen and rolled his eyes.

"Hello?"

"Johnny~!" the voice slurred. "H-how have you been, dear brother? Long time no see or talk! Dooo you hate me?"

John furrowed his brows and looked at his watch. It was only 4 o'clock in the afternoon.

"Harry, have you been drinking?" he asked exasperatedly.

His older sister giggled. "Yeaahh. It's just that, you know, it's so _boring_," she complained.

Her younger brother sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Stop drinking, Harry. You have a problem." He was getting concerned as her drinking was definitely getting out of hand.

"Nooo..." she drawled on. "Listen, little brother, life's hard. It's-it's _soo_ hard," she rambled on.

"Harry, stop drunk dialing me. I'm hanging up," he said, ending the conversation in the middle of her sentence. He sighed. He had wished Harry would stop drinking so much, but now, he wished that she gave up, maybe attend one of those alcoholic meetings.

John absentmindedly flipped through the paper for a few more minutes until a small email notification popped up on his screen. The person who sent the ad had replied.

_"Two are rotten and one is made of gold," _it read.

Good. A new client_,_ John thought.

_"2am. Birmingham. Wendy's Bar. Keep checking email. Meeting place will be moved," _he typed and clicked send.

* * *

**A/N:**

Hello hello! Sorry for the late update! My modem decided to die, so we had to go out and buy another one. =_=  
This was _supposed _to be submitted yesterday, but I just finished writing it because my internet is stupid and I write everything on google docs. It's super convenient. I write all my class notes there too. I can switch computers without having to email my stuff or use a usb. Well, I guess not so convenient when your internet is unavailable. haha!

Man, when I upload the chapters on here, they seem so short, but when I'm writing it, it seems so dreadfully long.  
What do you guys think, write longer chapters? Cause I can if that's what you want! :)

I know nothing really happened in this chapter, but I'm trying to build up the background.  
Ooh you guys should be so excited. I have a lot of plans for a couple characters that are getting **me **excited, so stay tuned!

Also, bear with me. I don't really know much medical jargon, so I'm doing my best to research.  
I know in the beginning, the charge is dealing with joules, but I'm not sure how much it should be in this particular situation, so I left it vague. It should be at least 200.  
Darn you, John, with your medical knowledge that I don't know.

Also, this is turning out to be more John-centric in the beginning because...well, it's 'The Good Doctor'. Lol  
But later, I will add Sherlock's inner dialogue when appropriate.

Once again,  
Thank you for reading! :)


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**The Good Doctor**  
**Chapter 3**  
**  
A New Client**

* * *

"Aw, Seb, I don't think it's fair that I always have to clean up his messes," a woman said as she impatiently shoved a clip in her gun. She pulled the top portion back to load the first bullet into the chamber and heard a satisfying click. Her partner sat on the window sill, looking out into the night sky, chewing on a wooden toothpick. He had one leg propped up and his right hand was leaning on his knee, a sniping rifle gripped in his hand. He adjusted the patch that covered his left eye. The woman turned her head towards him as she was putting away the gun in the holster attached to her right leg and caught a small glimpse of the bottom of the scar the black cloth hid.

He ignored her, but stopped chewing and pulled the toothpick out of his mouth.

"I've never even met the man," she muttered, tightening the black leather gloves on her hands. "Hah. Sending backup. As if I need it," she continued under breath. She looked at the black watch on her left wrist that was resting on on the sleeve of her skin-tight bodysuit. "Almost time, Seb," she informed the man who ignored her again and continued looking out the window at the stars. She huffed. By now, she should be used to his cold demeanor, but it was a tad annoying when you didn't have anyone to speak to, especially if you weren't the only one in the room. Partners were supposed to communicate, but Seb always wanted to do things his way. Or her boss's way. She was a good mercenary. She was loyal, but he always chose Seb over her. His loyal lapdog.

_What an embarrassment,_ she thought.

* * *

A nervous looking man stumbled into Wendy's Bar around 2am and sat down at the bar counter right next to John. He kept shifting his eyes towards the door and was unable to stop shaking his right leg out of anxiety.

"Need a pint, mate?" the bartender asked him. The man curtly smiled and nodded.

"Thanks," he replied as the barkeep filled a glass of beer and handed it to him. The man hastily gulped down the entire content not caring when the beer started to pour from the sides and drip down his neck. He slammed the cup down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

John chuckled. "Nervous?"

The man turned and looked at the blond stranger sitting on the stool next to him on the counter top. "Yeah. Something like that," he replied.

"Oh, are you waiting for someone?"

The stranger nodded. John leaned towards him.

"Is it a woman?" he teased. The man shook his head.

"Well, then, a man?"

The nervous stranger shook his head more vigorously.

"No, no no. Just...more like...for a business transaction," he said somberly, lowering his head a bit. It was obvious he was in the process of recalling a rather unpleasant memory.

John raised his eyebrows. "What an interesting place to meet at an interesting hour," he commented.

"Yeah. I didn't choose it," the man replied. He grabbed some napkins and starting wiping the counter he had spilled beer on and then tried to mop himself up. It was no use.

"Well, I hope you have a good business transaction then, um-"

"-Nathaniel," the man said.

"-Nathaniel, then. Good luck," John said as he drank the rest of his own beer and threw down a couple of notes for his drink.

"Thanks," the man said as he watched the stranger walk out the door.

* * *

The woman stood with her right arm extended outwards and cocked her gun.

"Please! I'll do anything! Don't kill me!" a man said to the female behind him with his hands held up.

"That's what got you in trouble in the first place, traitor," she replied as she kicked his knees. His legs buckled and he winced in pain as his knees hit the ground, hard.

"Any last words?" she said as she held up her gun behind his head. He stopped begging and scoffed. It escalated into laughter.

"Tell him, tell him that he can go fu-," he began, but his body suddenly hit the floor, rendering the sentence incomplete. She shot him directly in the head. The woman looked over at the dark window and gave a thumbs up. Her partner who was on the roof of the adjacent building sat up from the laying position he was in, took off the heat sensor in front of his eye, and began disassemble and pack up his gun.

_Boss'll be very pleased,_ he thought.

* * *

Nathaniel looked at his watch for the fifth time that night. Why wasn't The Doctor contacting him? Suddenly, his cellphone vibrated in his pocket and he jumped, startled at the foreign sensation. He pulled it out and read that he had a new email notification. He opened it.

"_Warehouse 13 down the road. Backside. Wait," _it read. He gulped.

"Well," he muttered, "it's now or never."

He thanked the bartender and threw a couple notes down himself to pay for his pint and slid off the stool. The patrons were extremely rowdy at that point and the barkeep was getting ready to kick everyone out due to closing time. He dodged a few random drunken limbs that flew in the air and made his way out the door.

The cold night air blasted his face and he started to shiver. He pulled his jacket tighter to himself and walked straight down the road, passing no more than two people. As he continued, the buildings became dirtier and worse for the wear. He had never been in this part of Birmingham before, so he was afraid of getting lost. This was his only chance and if he missed it, he would hate himself forever. He wouldn't be able to live with the memories.

He looked around at the seemingly abandoned buildings searching for a giant '13'. Well, he assumed there would be a giant 13. Weren't the numbers normally painted on the sides? He kept walking and almost missed it due to his ruminations. He doubled back and squinted.

"13!" he whispered excitedly. Nathaniel was getting more nervous with each step he took towards the building. He found his way to the back alley and looked around, but saw no one in sight.

"H-hello?" he called out to thin air. He stood between the building and a wall of giant crates behind him that curved to meet the corner of the building, blocking off the path. He shivered again as the wind sent another blast of chilly air. He looked at the ground and took a few steps back to lean on the giant wooden box behind him.

"Hello," a voice said above him. Nathaniel jumped and looked around, finding no one. He looked up and right above him was a hooded man clothed in black, squatting down in the moonlight.

xxxx

John watched Nathaniel bumble into the vicinity like an idiot as he perched atop a very tall stack of wooden crates. He wore his usual military-grade incognito attire: black aviator sunglasses with a gold frame, a sleeveless under armor turtleneck with a neck that extended all the way up to his face to cover his nose and mouth like a mask, comfortable and flexible black pants with straps attached to both thighs to hold a few of his guns and knives, his trusty combat boots, his black leather gloves, and of course, the black hooded cape that covered his entire head. He had removed his civilian clothes earlier and shoved them into the compact bag that was currently clung over his torso, much like how an archer carried his arrows.

Oh yes, this was definitely a revenge-for-a-close-friend-or-family's-death case, he thought as he quietly observed his potential client. John frowned. He need a more efficient way to categorize his cases. He shook his head and resumed watching the poor man shiver when Nathaniel called out, "H-hello?"

John said nothing for a moment. The man backed up and leaned against the crates when the doctor decided to make himself known.

"Hello," he said, startling the man he had observed in the bar. He liked to see his clients before deciding to hire himself out. John was an extremely picky mercenary and refused to do a job that he didn't think was up to his standards and morals. He was an excellent judge of character, if he did say so himself. Or rather think. Whatever.

"The-oh-th-doct-th-" the man stuttered. John snorted and rolled his eyes behind the dark shades.

"There were six lions in a den," he said.

The man stopped sputtering and racked his brain. What was it again? What was the passcode?

"A-and Daniel was safe," Nathaniel sputtered out, hoping that the phrase he had was the one up to date. He had paid good money to get it, so the guy who got him the information better not have ripped him off.

John nodded and jumped off the crate. Nathaniel watched in horror. It was a long fall!

"Wait-!" he began.

The hooded mercenary landed directly in front of the man who stared at him with widened eyes. His cape fluttered closed as he landed.

"So," John said, pushing himself upwards from the squatting position he had landed in, "what can The Doctor do for you?" He dusted the dirt off of the gloves on his hands, walked forward from the shadows halfway into the light, and shifted his cape so that his torso and arms were visible. He took down his hood revealing his sunglasses. His blond hair seemed to glisten as much his aviators did.

_His hair looked too blond to be real_, the man thought. Nathaniel glanced at the man's muscles which bulged in the moonlight. The Doctor clearly kept himself in shape.

"I-I need you to take care of someone for me," he began. He paused for a moment. "A bastard that killed my little girl," he added, his blood beginning to boil in anger.

John stood and nodded, arms crossed, silently prompting him to go on. His clients needed to vent their anger and emotions out.

"She was only seven for Christ's sake. Seven!" he echoed, beginning to tear up. "Sh-she was gone. Just like that. Kidnapped from school. Three days later, the police banged on my door. Told me I needed to ID a body that had washed up from a river in the woods, they said. My wife died in childbirth so it was just me and Susie," he recalled, beginning to sob. "And I know who did it. I know it was our neighbor, Alan Crusoe."

"Evidence?" John asked.

"Air-tight alibi, but I know it in my gut. That's why I need you to track him down and get evidence. You're a mercenary right? Means you do anything as long as you get paid, right?"

John paused.

"Do you know why they call me 'The Doctor'?"

His client shook his head.

"I clean up. Clean wounds. Heal the scars. I save lives by serving rightful justice to those whom the system failed. I am The Doctor, not an immoral pillock that would sell his soul for a handful of pennies. I am your relief, your surgeon, your pathway to catharsis. I live to serve those who are desperate, broken, and have no one to turn to."

Nathaniel stood there, not saying a word. He didn't even know this man, yet he had a strange feeling, perhaps something like...respect? He exuded such a presence that made you feel protected. Yes, that was it. He was like a silent protector. Here, was a man of such morality that broke the law (ironically) to bring complete strangers justice. For a price. Everything was give and take. He had learned that early in life.

He made up his mind. He was going to do it.

"I need you to get him. Bring my little girl to justice. Make him suffer!" Nathaniel said angrily.

"Let me remind you I **do** **not kill** unless necessary, but you knew that when you decided to seek me out. I service those who find themselves lost in the grey area of life. They want justice, but cannot force themselves to get it by their own hands. I let the law take its course and I can guarantee you that this man, if guilty, _will be found guilty_. My services include compiling damning evidence and/or leading the police onto a scent that will condemn him. If you're looking to play god and serve a death sentence, then I am not the man you are looking for," John explained. "Only when someone is in danger will I end a life, but those instances are quite rare."

Nathaniel, a bit troubled, pulled out a picture of his wife and daughter from his pocket. He looked at it, taking a few moments to contemplate his choices.

"Susie and Elizabeth wouldn't want me to turn into a murderer..." he began, "...which is why I need you, Doctor," he finally said.

John nodded.

"Then I will accept. All information regarding payment will be dealt with afterwards. I will keep in contact and inform you when the job is complete."

xxxx

The next morning, Andrew stood at the nurses' station, filling out charts for his resident when he saw Doctor Watson walking down the corridor, yawning again.

"Doctor Watson! Good morning!" he greeted cheerfully. John, not exactly feeling very chipper that morning, politely nodded and gave him a smile.

"Need caffeine," he muttered to Andrew and kept on his way, going towards the cafeteria. He got back around 5am that morning and barely got any sleep. In a couple hours, he woke up, took a shower, and rushed to work.

John was almost at his destination when he changed his mind and decided to take a nap in one of the on-call rooms. It was a slow morning and he had weaseled his way out of clinic duty, at least for now. He dragged himself into one of the rooms and passed out on a bed.

* * *

"Sherlock, I need your help," DI Lestrade said, standing in front of the detective who sat in his chair which was situated in the middle of his flat. Sherlock's elbows were resting comfortably on the armrests and his fingertips in front of his face touching their opposites on the other hand as they made a circular 'o' shape. Anderson and Donovan were standing awkwardly behind Lestrade, marvelling at all the weird things the curly-haired man kept in his home.

"Don't touch that, Anderson," Sherlock warned as the forensic man halted in the middle of poking a weird object encased in a plastic bag on the detective's desk.

He scoffed. "Wouldn't want to anyway. You never know what kind of diseases you can contract from this filthy room you call 'home'."

Sherlock ignored him, assuming he tagged along with Lestrade to annoy him and looked up at the pepper-haired Detective Inspector.

"Not interested. Too far," he commented.

"Bracknell, Sherlock. It's a city on the edge of London, only about an hour away," he told him, unsure if the young detective even knew where the city was. The consulting detective shot him a dirty look to which Greg recoiled.

Oops.

"Did I mention the victim was killed execution style? The killer definitely knew what they were doing," Lestrade continued.

Sherlock slightly perked in interest.

"Such a freak," Donovan muttered under her breath behind her boss.

"No traces of DNA. We don't even know who the victim was. No ID. Fingerprints don't match anything. No dental records...shall I go on?" he continued.

After a moment, the consulting detective stood up and started walking out the door.

"And that, my friends, is why _I_ am _Detective Inspector _Lestrade," Greg said to his employees as they followed him out. "Get me coffee, Anderson."

Anderson groaned.

xxxx

Sherlock stood in the middle of yet another abandoned warehouse. How many of those did Britain have? On the floor in front of him was a line of tape outlining the area where the body of the unknown victim was. He crouched down and observed the bullet entrance wound on the back of the man's head with his small magnifying lens Mycroft had given him many years ago. Lestrade stood next to him, notepad and pen in hand.

"Looks like a business man, doesn't he?" he commented.

Sherlock ignored him. He moved the body, rolling it ever so slightly to its side to see if there was an exit wound. "Hold him," he instructed the DI.

Greg looked down from his notepad.

"Huh? What? Sherlock! Don't..._move _it! You'll destroy the evidence!" he yelled in a slight panic.

"Details. Hold it or I'm going to move the entire body," the consulting detective threatened. Lestrade complied, tucking his pen and notebook back into his breast pocket.

It was evident that the bullet had exited, judging from the gaping hole in the dead center of the man's forehead. He gestured that the DI could set the body back down and moved on to observing the legs. The knees. He was kneeling when he was killed. The victim's pants had dust and filth from the ground that was concentrated around the knees and the edges of the bottom of his trousers that would only be there if they were slightly hanging down onto the floor. The only possible explanation would be kneeling.

Sherlock did a quick mental calculation and glanced at the ground in front of the body. Most likely the killer shot at an angle, which would indicate that the bullet would have exited and rammed into the floor. Ah. There.

He observed the small hole the bullet dug that had several starburst cracks in the concrete floor that were created by the force of impact that extended from the hole. Naturally, the bullet and its casing was missing.

"What do you think, Sherlock? Vigilante?" Greg asked.

The lithe man shook his head. "Highly doubt that."

"Well, maybe he changed his MO. Perhaps got a little bit overexcited and killed the man."

"No, this was done by someone else, or perhaps some_thing _else. For starters, the 'vigilante' collects evidence to condemn his victims."

"Damn," Lestrade muttered, "I was really hoping it was the vigilante. He's been kicking everyone's asses. We need to find him before he does anything else."

Sherlock's mouth quirked. "Why? He's been doing a fine job cleaning up after Scotland Yard's sloppy mess. I'd say he's actually doing you a favor."

The Detective Inspector scowled.

"Shut up and get on with it, Sherlock."

The consulting detective complied. "This was definitely a professional job done by an assassin or someone from the military who's highly trained in the knowledge of combat and killing. The victim, judging from his clothes is a wealthy man. So wealthy, in fact, that his existence has been erased. Most likely got into a bit of trouble because of it. From the lack of possessions, I'm assuming he was supposed to meet someone here. Most likely someone of questionable character. Double-crossed. Killed. Perhaps he's part of an organization of some sort. But the question is why? Why was he killed?"

* * *

John snored so loudly he jolted himself awake. He blinked several times and remembered he was at work. He hurriedly checked his watch.

"Oh no. Slept for three hours!" he scrambled out of the bed and tripped as the sheets tangled around his legs. After getting off the floor and out of the sheets, he yanked the door open and straightened out his doctor's coat. It was terribly wrinkled as he accidentally slept in it. He quickly walked towards the emergency centre.

"Robinson. Anything new?" he asked the resident.

The doctor turned around at the mention of her name.

"Oh no, Doctor Watson. Just a lot of sutures here and there. Nothing we couldn't handle. You can go back to the clinic."

"Good, good," he said, thanking God the chief was nowhere in sight and didn't know he was gone. Robinson thought he was in the clinic this entire time. "Well. I'm off to, uh, go back to the clinic. You know. Where I've been for the past three hours. Page me if you need anything."

She smiled at the attending. "Will do."

xxxx

The blond doctor leaned all the way back on his swivel chair, balancing a pencil between his upper lip and nose. He wondered why it was so slow today.

_Probably because the bigger hospitals get the trauma cases first,_ he thought. Their hospital was relatively small, but John chose to work here precisely because of that fact. The less people he knew, the more he could protect his identity.

There was a knock at his door. A woman opened it and peered in.

"Um. Hello. I was told to come in here?" she said.

John didn't notice her.

"Um...h-hello?" she repeated.

John glanced at the door and immediately sat up, dropping the pencil.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Come in," he told her, clearing his throat and shuffling papers around. He moved yesterday's newspaper to the side which was open to the article he had been reading the previous evening and had brought to work that morning.

The woman came inside and sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the blond doctor. He couldn't help but notice how terribly attractive she was. Beautiful.

"S-so," he began, placing his arms on the desk and intertwining his fingers, "what is, um, what are you in assistance of?"

He watched the blonde woman set her purse on the chair next to her and took the small gloves off of her petite hands, placing them in her bag.

No wedding ring, no tan line.

"Well, doctor, it's kind of embarrassing, but I'm a bit of a hypochondriac and look up symptoms on the internet all the time. I was looking things up yesterday and fear I may have insomnia because I haven't been able to sleep very well for a few months," she frowned. She reached up to fuss with her bun which held all her wavy blonde hair.

John stared. It was like cornsilk. Golden. Beautiful.

"O-okay, well, um, first I need to ask a few preliminary questions. How is your sleep schedule?" he asked.

The woman pursed her lips. "Hm...due to my job I need to stay up all night, practically. I am almost nocturnal," she joked. "And then I have to get up early, but this just recently started taking its toll, I suppose."

"What is your occupation?" John asked.

"Oh, I am a journalist!" she answered. "I write for _The Times_."

John nodded. "So that would explain the irregular sleeping schedule. Do you have a history of depression, alcohol abuse, or any kind of disease?" he asked her. "I just need a comprehensive background."

She shook her head. "No, but I've visited other doctors and they have all told me just to stop going to sleep late. But it's not that simple. This just recently started happening and no matter how early I try to sleep, it won't go away. I'm a bit desperate."

John nodded. "I am going to start you on eszopiclone which are essentially sleeping pills that will help you fall asleep. Try it out for a couple weeks and come back. I want to be updated," he said as he whipped out his prescription pad, grabbed a pen from his breast pocket, and started writing. He realized he didn't know who his patient was. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Mary, Mary Morstan," she answered, smiling at the charmingly handsome doctor.

He wrote her name and signed the prescription at the bottom. He then ripped it off the pad, handed it to her, and gave her directions to the pharmacist.

"Thank you, Doctor-Watson, was it?" she said pointedly looking at his coat. John looked down at the ID tag that was clipped onto his pocket which contained various pens and highlighters and was glad he was sitting down because the wrinkles were all located on the back.

"Yes and you are very welcome Ms. Morstan," he replied.

"Mary."

"Mary," he echoed.

She gave him one last warm smile before gathering her things and closing the door, fussing with her bun again.

He leaned back on his chair, smiling goofily to himself for a moment until he realized something. _Wait, Mary Morstan? _He had heard that name somewhere before...

He sat up, shifting through his papers until he found what he was looking for. He spotted it and grabbed the newspaper he was reading yesterday and looked at the article debating the ethics of John's 'vigilante' work in this double life.

There, underneath the article was a hyphen and the name _Mary Morstan._

* * *

**A/N:**

Hello hello!  
This chapter is early, huh? About a day or two. I usually update on Friday or Saturday.  
AND I've been working on Parallel all week too. Just snippets here and there.  
Probably because I've been procrastinating an assignment for my class. LOl  
I wrote all of this chapter today. Took a few hours, give or take. I tried making it a bit longer, if you've noticed.  
I don't know why I wrote all of this when I probably should have finished Parallel first. Haha

If you guys don't know, I actually upload these right after I finish writing them. I don't plan my stories out either, like on a master list. It's all in my head and I just write using streaming of consciousness. haha

Well, I'm excited where the story's going! I hope you are too :P

Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 4**

**Pizza**

* * *

John twisted his waist a bit to the left and held binoculars to his face and watched through the window as his client's neighbor shuffled around his kitchen preparing his food. He lived alone even though he seemed to be about 40 years old. The mercenary had done a bit of background checking before hand and illegally obtained his records (he had connections in very favorable places) which showed a spotless background. He had no record of ever being arrested and didn't have anything at all, not even a bloody speeding ticket. Baffling.

The blond doctor was sitting in a car on the other side of the street he had "borrowed" from somewhere. Actually, he hotwired the vehicle and took it. He was going to return it by leaving it right where he was just in case the police were on his tail already. He would simply slip out of the car and run. No harm, no foul. He reached into a bag of crisps and grabbed a few, lifting them to his mouth and munching on it as he continued to watch Alan Crusoe. John was awfully ravenous. The trauma centre was extremely busy today due to a pile up near their building and more than six people were rushed in. Four had suffered fatal injuries while the other two were in intensive care. As much as he wanted them to survive, John was kind of annoyed at the fact that he was on call on such an important night. He would have to observe the Alan's every move to catch him red-handed. Pedophiles never hunt for prey only once. No, they are never satisfied, the bastards. John's blood began to boil in anger and he chewed his crisps even faster. He realized how thirsty he was and immediately regretted choosing salty crisps of all things to eat. He never drank on a stake-out. Drinking fluids means the necessity of urinating and the bad guy _always _came out when you needed to go to the loo.

Hours later, his client's neighbor turned off his bedroom lights and went to sleep. The doctor waited for a couple more hours just in case it was a feint when he spotted a police vehicle strolling down the street in the rearview mirror.

"Whoops, that's my cue," he muttered as he grabbed the empty bag and exited the car. He slowly opened the driver's door and shut it extremely quietly, kneeling down on the pavement on one knee as he did. It was times like this when he actually appreciated his short stature, which was rarely. Just as he lunged backwards into the shadows, the police car stopped next to the "borrowed" vehicle and rolled down the window, squinting to get a better look at the license plates. Of course, he called it in and John silently left, leaving no evidence of his presence anywhere. Well, maybe except a few crumbs.

* * *

The blond doctor, now in his civilian clothes, his work-clothes shoved in his small sack which was shoved inside a more inconspicuous messenger bag, was sitting on the in a cabbie waiting for his stop when he felt faint. He needed sustenance and he needed it now. As a doctor, it would be really idiotic if he passed out and found himself in a hospital, so he told his driver to pull over, wherever that was, paid him, and stumbled out onto the street. There, in front of him was a pizza restaurant. He didn't care what he ate. He needed something now. His stomach grumbled so loudly he jumped, startling himself. He chuckled and walked up to the restaurant and noticed the open sign was on.

It was early in the morning, perhaps 3am? He wasn't sure and he was too lazy to check his watch, but he checked the restaurant time table and saw that it was open until 4am. Most likely due to the amount of revenue raked in by the drunk idiots scouring the town for food and more drinks. He pulled the door open, setting off a small bell situated atop the door and walked straight to the counter past a group of drunk teenagers. He sat on a stool and greeted the lone chef who nodded and handed him a menu.

"What drink can I get ya, mate?" he asked as he cleaned a glass cup with a rag.

"Just water, thanks."

The robust man filled a cup with ice and water and handed to him, adding a slice of lemon.

"Ready to order?" he asked in a slightly raspy deep voice.

John pursed his lips.

"Think I'll have...the pepperoni, please."

The chef nodded.

"Can't go wrong with pepperoni. Nope."

John gave him a small smile and grabbed his cup, taking a long drink. He didn't realize how thirsty he was, not since his duration outside of Crusoe's home.

"Thirsty?" the chef asked as he refilled the now half empty cup.

John smiled and watched the large man refill it and then turn to work on John's order. He was a rather homely looking fellow, but appeared to be extremely friendly. He looked about fifty years old, large hooked nose (which looked like it had been broken, healed, and broken again), and had white hair which was almost entirely covered by his small white boat-hat. It was crooked, revealing the hair underneath. His white attire had a few tomato sauce stains here and there, even on the rolled up sleeves that were up to about three quarters up his forearm. His striped apron definitely had stains all over it. It was a little disconcerting to look at. Never mind that, John focused on drinking his water to quell his demanding stomach. He watched the chef toss the dough in the air a few times when he heard the bell atop the door tinkle as another patron walked into the restaurant.

The chef looked past John at the customer and smiled.

"Hey! It's my man!" he greeted the stranger.

A tall, lanky, slender, ghostly-looking man walked past John and sat at the other end of

the counter, a newspaper in hand.

"Frank," the man nodded.

"What can I get ya? On the house, of course," the chef asked as he continued to work on John's pizza.

"The usual," the man said curtly as he tugged off his leather gloves. He slid the end of his scarf out of the loop it was in and placed it on the counter with his gloves. John looked over and noticed the man's unruly hair.

_I've seen that hair before,_ he thought.

* * *

Sherlock opened his paper and scanned the classified ads. He had decided to move to a new flat in London months ago, but he still couldn't find a suitable place. Or suitable mates. He had been contacted a few times by various people but five minutes with him, they all backed out of the deal. Hm. He wondered why.

He had decided to get something to eat as his refrigerator was filled to the brim with odd things he had pilfered from St. Bart's and there was no room for food, or in other words, there was absolutely nothing to eat. He didn't realize how ravenous he was until his rumbling stomach broke his concentration. Pity. He was in the middle of an extremely interesting experiment. Sherlock looked at the clock that hung on his wall and decided to get some food from Frank's. It was still open. He remembered the schedule as he visited there a few times. The chef and owner had sought out his services when he was being accused of running with the Italian mobsters in the city, one of whom was the man's cousin.

It was obvious the man had no relation to the mob men other than his cousin Vinny. Why the police thought his tiny restaurant was a front for their drug operations just baffled Sherlock. Some people can be absolutely stupid. Moronic. Idiotic. Cretinous.

The younger Holmes continued to scan the ads as Frank gave him water and resumed making another customer's food in addition to Sherlock's 'everything' pizza. He didn't know what Frank called it, but it had pretty much everything. Pepperonis, those little meatballs, bellpeppers, mushrooms..and other things. He didn't really care to memorize what was on it or what it was called. His brain needed that room to store other more important information.

For some reason, Sherlock glanced at the 'D' section and halted at an odd ad. It said something about a doctor being needed, but there was no indication of what kind of doctor and why. There were countless symptoms and specialties, so why put a generic 'doctor'? And what kind of help? Either the person who put the ad in was thoughtless, or it was vague on purpose. Perhaps there was more to it than what it read. Interesting. He made a mental note to look at that later. In the meanwhile, he moved on to the 'F' section to look at available flats or people seeking a flatmate.

* * *

Frank was finally done with John's food and the restaurant was filled with the smell of freshly made pizza. John got back to his seat from the loo and saw his food waiting for him. His mouth started to water and his stomach grumbled loudly. He ignored it and sat down, preparing to dig in when the man on the far end of the counter was too busy reading the newspaper and almost bit into the piping hot pizza which would have surely burned his mouth.

"Wait!" John called.

The man looked up, his mouth slightly agape. His slice of pizza hung limp and lamely from his hand and the heavy toppings were beginning to slide off.

"You'll get burned if you eat it right out of the oven, you know." The blond doctor looked pointedly down at the slice.

The lanky man shifted his eyes at the pizza and glanced at all the steam that rose from it.

"Ah. Thank you," he said as he set it down and resumed scanning the newspaper.

John noticed he was reading another article about the unknown 'vigilante' which

made him wonder if the journalist he had treated for insomnia about a week ago was really the author of these ridiculous articles. His panger vibrated and he checked it, groaning as he was called back to the hospital. Damn his job.

"Can I get this to-go please?" he asked Frank who immediately gathered everything for him.

* * *

John hurried into the trauma centre after changing into his scrubs.

"What's the problem?"

A nurse turned her head towards him.

"Oh, Doctor Watson. Two of your patients coded but..." she trailed off.

"Too late?" he asked. She nodded.

John sighed.

"Alright. You did everything you could. Where's Robinson?" She was the intern on duty.

The nurse pointed at trauma room number 1. He nodded his thanks and headed over and saw the doctor sitting on a chair in the dark, her face in her hands.

He knocked on the open door as he stood in the frame. "Doctor Robinson? Are you alright?" he asked.

The intern immediately sat up in response and wiped her tears.

"I'm good. Doctor Wilhelm called the time of death. I'm good," she said, her voice cracking.

John squatted down in front of her.

He made a motion to speak, but hesitated. "You know," he said after a moment, "we can't save everyone. Death is a part of life. There's no use in crying over something that was meant to happen. Do you understand?" he asked. He sounded a little harsh, but if you were working trauma, you had to be tough. Save the emotion for later. He learned that the hard way.

She sniffled as her head bobbed up and down.

"It's-it's not fair," she had almost inaudibly.

John closed his eyes and pursed his lips for a second, and opened his eyes..

"Well, life's not fair. You did everything you could. You're a healer, not God. If it was his time to go, it was his time to go. Take a break. Eat," he ordered her as he stood up. John dusted off his white coat and went to check on his other patients.

By the time the doctor got back to his pizza, it was ice cold. He ate it anyway; he wouldn't care if it was dropped on the floor at this point. He was starving. John's eating habits were terrible, but that was the price he paid for his busy life. He sat alone on the bench in the lobby, thinking about the man back at the restaurant which was probably closed by now. He didn't even know where it was. He just took cabs everywhere and paid the fare as it was obvious he could afford it. That man looked extremely familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it. he shrugged the thought away and finished his meal.

* * *

_John was running away from the bombs exploding all around him. One went off right at his feet and the man who was half-supporting his body and half-dragging him screamed in horror. He crumbled to the ground, gripping his face. John, semi-conscious, knew they had to get out of there or they'd never see the light of day again._

"_Come on!" the doctor mustered out wearily, tugging at the man. They both staggered away as more explosives and bullets flew past their ears._

John bolted awake and looked at his pager. Someone was summoning him from the clinic. _Great_, he thought. He had ended up sleeping in the on-call room. Again. What was the point of paying the rent for his flat when he was virtually never in it? He sighed and hoisted himself up. At least this time, he had remembered to take off his coat.

He slipped it on and opened the door, taking his time. He really didn't feel like working today. As usual. How he had become a doctor, he didn't know. The clinic patient could wait though. He headed towards the Intensive Care section to check on his patients. Once he completed that, he began walking towards the clinic wing, passing Andrew who turned around and handed him a cup of tea while gripping his own.

"Thanks," John said as he raised the cup in thanks to Andrew who was walking backwards. He nodded and raised his own in response, turned back around and hurried to catch up with his other peers.

Mary sat in Doctor Watson's office and rolled her neck, hitting it to massage it. She had another long night and her insomnia wasn't getting any better. The woman outside had said she paged the doctor, but he was taking his sweet time. She sighed, getting impatient. Her boss would have her head if she didn't turn in her article for revision in two hours. She checked her cell phone. She had time. Well, it would also take her about an hour to get back so..maybe she didn't have _that_ much time.

The door opened and the blond doctor she met a couple weeks ago walked in, taking a swig of tea. Or coffee. Whatever. She wondered, was he a tea or coffee man? For some odd reason, that really intrigued her.

She smiled brightly. "Hello, Doctor Watson!"

He sleepily looked at her and sputtered, choking on his tea. After coughing for a few seconds, he straightened up.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Mary, was it? Nice to see you again," he said sheepishly as he set his tea on his desk and sat down on his desk. "What can I do for you today?"

Mary reached up to her bun and adjusted it. "You said to come in for a check up, so here I am." She waited for a response, raising a single eyebrow when none came.

John stared at a spot on his desk. What was it? Oh, maybe it was dried jam he accidentally spilled the other day. Hm. Didn't look like jam. Was it a coffee stain? He didn't remember spilling any liquids though. What was it? Looked like it was a permanent stain though. He made a mental note to ask the janitorial staff if it was possible to get that out of his desk.

"Um...doctor...?" Mary said, trying to get his attention. "Hello..?"

Someone was calling him. He looked up.

"Hm?" A patient. Crap. He forgot he was at work.

He cleared his throat. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I kind of drifted away for a moment. Yes.

Check up, I did ask for. Yes. So, uh, Ms. Morstan-"

"Please, Mary."

"-yes, Mary, how have the sleeping pills worked out for you?" he inquired.

The blonde woman took a moment to think.

"Well, I think it was working for the first few days, so I didn't take them the next two. I managed to fall asleep without them, but then the next week, the insomnia started up again. I don't know what to do," she said almost desperately.

"Well, Ms-er, Mary," he corrected himself, "I think we need to go over your sleeping schedule. If you don't mind, could you write up a daily schedule for me? From there, we can try to figure out a way to tweak your habits in order to help you get a good night's sleep naturally," he said as he wrote instructions down. "I also want you to keep a journal detailing when you sleep and how long."

Mary nodded.

"Well, I must be going, but I suppose this just means I will see you tomorrow, doctor?"

John nodded.

"Goodbye, John," she said, winking as she left the door.

John blushed.

* * *

Sebastian Moran sat in his dingy room, cleaning his guns. He always took good care of his guns religiously, always taking time when he wasn't busy with assignments given directly to him from the boss. The man had saved his life. Taken him in when there was no where to go. Sure, he had his tryst as a solo mercenary after his military days, but it was boring. He had no purpose other than killing people for other people's revenges in exchange for money. He didn't need money. He needed a purpose.

He scratched at the skin underneath his missing eye. It was kind of itchy today.

His boss was a brilliantly intelligent man. His view on life sparked his interest. Oh, every mercenary and assassin that ever existed wanted to get a job from his boss, but he was a hard man to get in contact with. Even harder to get hired by him. Imagine his surprise when an anonymous client contacted him with the most odd jobs. After he completed one, he would receive another through one of many of the man's lackeys. He had followed the client's orders down to the very last detail without hesitation, and as a reward, he was allowed to meet him face-to-face. He would never forget that day. It was one of the most nerve-wracking moments of his entire life and from then on, he was hired indefinitely, even becoming his right-hand man. He respected the man and would even give his life for him which was why he endured having to deal with a partner, a woman none the less. She was so irritating. He wanted to choke the life out of her, but his boss had a reason for everything. Why he hired her, Sebastian had no idea. She basically walked into his world from the streets. Did she think being a mercenary and assassin was a game? None the less, she got the job done. That was the only reason why he tolerated her.

His text tone went off as he received a message.

"Meet M tonight at 7. She will give the details." - M

Great, now he was getting orders through _her_?

He sighed and resumed cleaning his rifles, ignoring the burning itching sensation from his old scar on his eye.

* * *

John squatted down on the roof of the building across the shady motel, binoculars glued to his eyes. He had finally gotten off work early that day (for once) and was now trailing Crusoe once again. It seemed like he was up to something weird today. He had taken the tube all the way out here, about two hours from where he lived, checked into a room, and now he was apparently waiting for someone.

The doctor had a sneaky suspicion that he had been texting someone, and he hoped to God it wasn't an unknowing underage child. If what his client had said was true, Crusoe was a pedophile _and_ a murderer, two things that should never be and even worse when combined. He kept his eye on the motel and started stretching out his muscles. His gut had him thinking he needed to stay alert and limber tonight.

He was in the middle of stretching out his left leg when a taxi drove up. Someone of very short stature got out of the car, but it was hard to see the figure as they were standing too far from the lights emanating from the motel. The cab left and the person started walking towards the building. They eventually passed right under a street light.

Oh God. It was a teenager. Probably about fourteen or thirteen. She was heading towards room number 13, Crusoe's room.

The audacity of the bastard! John panicked and immediately climbed down the building, running faster than usual to catch her before she went in. He was halfway there when the girl knocked. The door opened and closed when she entered.

Shit.

He ran up, not caring if there were any cameras, and didn't even bother knocking. John kicked the door open, holding one of his guns, and felt his heart sink at the sight before him.

The assumed naked bastard was holding her down on the bed, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. They both immediately turned their heads towards him.

"Please, help me!" the girl sobbed.

John unhooked the safely.

"Let. Her. Go. Or I swear, I'll shoot," John threatened. He was serious.

The man let her go and held up his arms in surrender with his hands in the air.

"C'mon man, don't shoot. We were just wrestling," he said.

John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, right." He turned to the brunette who was cowering behind him, whimpering. "Go to the check-in lobby and tell them exactly what happened. Get them to call the police. Go. Now," he ordered. She nodded her head vigoriously, tears streaming down her face, and left.

"It's just you, and me," he said as Alan stared at the silver gun. The doctor took out a recorder from one of the many pockets on his person.

"Did you, or did you not, rape and kill your neighbor's daughter, Susie?"

Alan's eyes widened. "I-I-I," he stuttered.

John shot the vase to Alan's left.

"Oh my God! Are you crazy?!" he screamed.

John stood his ground. "Answer the damn question," he said as he turned the recorder on.

"Alright! Alright! I did! okay?!"

The doctor paused the recording.

"Did what?" He turned it back on.

"I killed her! Susie! I told her that her dad sent me to pick her up and I raped and killed her, okay? My friends covered for me from the police! Just don't kill me!"

John paused the tape again.

"How many others have you killed?" He pressed the small record button.

"Hey man, I'm-"

The blond shot the painting in the wall.

"Okay! Okay! Five other girls!"

"Name them," John demanded after he paused the recorder, turning it back it on when Crusoe spoke.

"I don't know their names, man." The doctor's blood began to boil in anger. He punched the man and collected the casing and bullets from the floor and the wall as Alan lay moaning on the floor in pain. He set to work, making sure Crusoe couldn't escape, and then left when he finally heard the sirens wailing in the distance. Luckily, no other boarders had come to check what all the noise was about (most likely due to there not being any other boarders at this dump).

"Holy hell," Lestrade muttered as his eyes caught sight of the scene before him. He had gently pushed open the broken door and gasped at the naked man sitting on the floor against the four-post bed. Two normal ropes were laxly tied to each wrist and the two posts at the bottom of the bed where he back was leaning against. A pair of open scissors hovering above his genetalia as he sat cross-legged on the floor and were tied to each wrist, the stretchy rope straining and tense. If the man lowered his arms, he would become a eunuch.

"H-help me! My arms are so tired!" the man said in a panicked tone.

"In due time," Lestrade said. He was in no hurry. The police had received a phone call from his motel about a pedophile and attempted rape from the staff of the motel who said the girl mentioned a man in black barged in a saved her. She said the pedophile's name was Alan Crusoe, a dismissed suspect in the murder of a young girl, his neighbor's child, in fact, which was why he, a homicide detective, came to the motel. Crusoe's alibi was air-tight due to several eye-witness. DI Lestrade rubbed his face. He had to reopen the case and re-interrogate each witness.

"Donovan, make sure someone's there with the girl. We need to get her statement, the staff's statements, and contact her parents," he ordered.

"Yes sir, " she said as she left.

Some of his men began to undo what John had done earlier, making sure they didn't cause the scissors to close. That would be a nightmare in paperwork.

Lestrade looked around as a forensic photographer began taking pictures of the crime scene. The bed was a mess. A vase was shattered, pieces scattering the floor. There was a small hole in the revolting orange and red painting of something the grey-haired man couldn't make out. On the desk across the bed was a small...recorder?

_What the hell had happened here? _he wondered.

* * *

**A/N:**

I am so sorry for not updating. I had a family emergency, then crisis, so I had no time to write until now.  
My summer class is over and everything's calm, so it's all good now.

I hope this wasn't too bad for a T. Shouldn't be, right?  
It's odd. I personally don't curse. Well, in my head I occasionally do, and perhaps I utter one out loud by accident, but my characters do, so I write them in my stories. Lol

Have you ever had an old scar that burned and/or itched? I have, right under my left eye. Weirdest sensations. I felt like Harry Potter. LOL My eye was tearing up though because of the burning sensation. Other times it would itch, probably because of new cell growth.

I apologize if you think things are going so slowly, but it's all build up. It's going somewhere. Somewhere very good. In due time, you'll see.  
I hope you stick around!

Thank you all so much for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss. _

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 5**

**Confessions**

* * *

Lestrade slowly circled the interrogation room in a predatorial nature. Alan Crusoe was sitting in a cold, hard, silver chair, chained to the desk and thankfully, fully clothed in sweats they mustered up from somewhere in the building as his own clothing was confiscated as evidence. His eyes trailed the pepper-haired Detective Inspector as he slinked around the room.

"I'm telling you, I had no idea who the guy was. He just barged in," he uttered for the fifth time that night. His fingers were spread apart, hands hitting the air in emphasis. The handcuffs made clinking noises as the chains connecting them to the chair banged on the other metal. They chafed his hands, making him grimace. "Also, mind loosening these up a bit?" he asked.

Greg, now on the other side of the table, abruptly slammed his hands down on the table and stared at the greasy-haired pedophile. His head came inches from hitting the lamp, the only light source in the room.

"Bloody scum like you who prey on innocent children, _children _for Christ's sake, don't deserve anything," he retorted with a growl. "Now, tell me again exactly what happened, you foul piece of-"

"-Inspector," Donovan warned from the back corner of the room, arms crossed and leaning on the wall as she watched him reach for his gun. The Inspector sighed and rubbed his face, turning his back on the criminal and flipping his blazer outwards in frustration.

The man who sat in front of them placed his elbows on the stainless steel table and intertwined his fingers, boredly leaning his face on his hands. "I want a lawyer."

* * *

A social worker was sitting next to the girl the mysterious man had saved earlier that night. She was wrapped in a heavy grey blanket, hands cupped around a mug of tea to soothe her nerves. It sat there getting colder by the second, untouched by her lips. Her hair was falling out of her ponytail, but she was much too frazzled to bother. She simply sat, staring at nothing in particular in front of her.

The Inspector watched from behind the two-way mirror, preferring to let another colleague take lead with the girl. After all, she _was_ just attacked by an adult man; a woman's presence would be much preferable rather than a male's and cooperation would be given more freely.

Sergeant Sally Donovan walked in and quietly closed the door. She went towards the side opposite the girl and pulled out the chair, promptly taking a seat. The sergeant placed her arms on the table and clasped her hands together.

"Hello, there. My name is Sally. Can you tell me what your name is?" she asked cautiously.

The girl snapped out of her trance and glanced at the social worker who nodded and looked back at the woman sitting across from her.

"My name...my name is Eliza."

Donovan nodded, her tight curls bouncing up and down. "Good." It was progress. The girl was talking now. The poor girl. Looked barely a day over thirteen. "Can you tell me how you know Mr. Crusoe, the man that attacked you?"

Eliza hesitated for a moment.

"You won't get in trouble. I promise," Donovan coaxed.

"We...we met online. On a website's forum about flowers. I-I like gardening and...he just seemed so nice. So nice..." she trailed off, staring at an unfixed point again. She bent her head down and started sniffling.

DI Lestrade pressed the button on his side of the mirror in order to turn on the mic that was connected to the earpiece of Donovan's left ear.

"You're losing her," he said. The door suddenly opened and Sherlock strode in. Greg let go of the button and turned to him. "Good. You're here. Did you get a good look at the crime scene?" he asked.

The Consulting Detective merely stared ahead, taking off his gloves. He shoved them in the pocket and stood, watching Donovan interview the victim on the other side.

"It's okay. He won't hurt you. He can't hurt you. He's going to be locked away. Now, can you tell me what happened?" her voice traveled through the speakers on their side. The social worker raised her right arm and started rubbing the girl's back. "It's okay," the lady quietly said, urging her to finish the story.

"W-we exchanged numbers, began texting, and he told me to meet him at that motel. Said he had gotten a hold of some rare flower seeds or something and wanted to meet me. My parents wouldn't've let me go if they knew, so we arranged it to be late. 'Cos you know, I could sneak out. I got there and that man, h-he just attacked me. Popped out of the loo and I just struggled to get away from him, but he was just too strong," she sniffled, "I thought I was going to die. But then someone broke down the door and saved me."

Lestrade straightened up, paying rapt attention while Sherlock continued to observe.

"Can you tell me what this man looked like?" the sergeant asked.

Eliza furrowed her brows. "Well, it was hard to tell what he looked like. Short. But other than that, I couldn't see him at all. He was covered. All in black, like that superhero character. Batman or something like that."

Lestrade huffed, crossing his arms as he faced the ceiling and closed his eyes. "You have got to be kidding me," he muttered. "Fat lot of good that did."

Sherlock merely narrowed his eyes. "Have you listened to the recording left at the scene?" he asked.

* * *

Lestrade, now back in interrogation room number one with Alan Crusoe after listening to the recording the forensics team had retrieved, sat in a chair with his legs crossed and propped up onto the table.

"I'll get you that lawyer," he lazily began, "but in the meantime, why don't you answer this one question: did you, or did you not plan to rape and murder that innocent child like you did to Susie Saunters and those five other girls? Where are they buried?" he finished, almost yelling in Crusoe's face.

Crusoe smiled evilly. "No, I did not. Like I said. I was gonna give her some rare flower seeds. And I don't know. That wasn't one question, by the way."

At that moment, a balding lawyer briskly opened the door holding a brief case.

"This interview is over. Mr. Crusoe, you have nothing further to say," he said.

Lestrade huffed and left, briskly walking down the corridor. He passed busy policemen, shuffling about the place doing paperwork, filing, or answering the phones which were ringing continuously. He didn't stop until he reached his office and barged in, joining Sherlock by sitting down on his desk chair, letting all the air out of the cushion as he did so.

"Sherlock, give me something. Anything. We need this-this mysterious man, or whatever the hell he is, as he's the only witness, though we've gotten a full confession on tape. Jury might think he lied out of fear of being murdered or some bollocks like that. You know how lawyers are," he said rubbing his temples. A migraine was flaring up.

Sherlock sat still, silent for a moment until he answered, "I suggest using the motel employees as witnesses. As for your vigilante fellow, I daresay he's quite capable of murder, perhaps in the most extreme cases. Two bullets shot. One at the vase, hence the broken ceramic pieces scattered all over the floor. The other, on the horrendous art piece on the wall. Both were shot as a warning. The vase, then the painting which indicates he was impatient. But he thinks. Quickly, on his feet. Pausing the tape to prevent his voice from being recorded. The second shot was presumably dangerously close to the man as the midpoint of the two bullet holes tell you exactly where the man in the interrogation room was standing which indicates your mysterious man is a crackshot. Shot close, but restrained. Once again, military or police training, meaning this isn't just some average citizen walking on the street. I detect that this man is good at reconnaissance. This case is different."

Lestrade, who was lounging languidly on his desk still rubbing his temples, opened his eyes and peered at the dark-haired consulting detective.

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" he asked tiredly.

"All the other cases have one thread in common: the victims were lured out. This one wasn't. _He _came to his victim. It wasn't planned; it wasn't as carefully thought out. Either he slipped, or he was trailing this man the entire time. Didn't realize what was happening until it did and the sight of what he saw made him angry enough to shoot two bullets. Two. Didn't attempt to kill, but the act of tying him up in ropes with sharp blades pointed at his genitles indicate anger on his part. Drug dealers. Pedophile. Doesn't fit the pattern. Both criminals are 'murderers' in a sense, but not quite the same, meaning he doesn't specifically target drug dealers as your men previously thought. What I wonder is, how does he know about these people? This suggests intelligence received from the inside, once again connections to either the police or the military. Oh, yes, he's good. Very good," he finished, standing up and putting his gloves back on and slightly smiling.

The Detective Inspector sighed. "I need more coffee."

* * *

John angrily threw off his hooded cape onto the floor of his messy flat and started undoing and throwing all of the straps and weapons on his person onto the wooden floor. The room was filthy as he had not cleaned his flat in weeks. There were abandoned half-eaten cartons of take-out littering every available flat surface. A bit of chow-mein noodles from that Chinese place on the corner by Rider Street were spilling out of its grease-stained white container onto the table. He didn't remember ever knocking that over, but never mind that, John was furious.

"Bastard! Should've shot him dead,," he muttered to himself as he sat on the dark green dingy couch that came with the flat. He ignored the spring that was sticking out of a worn hole on the side because John was beside himself with anger; it was days like this that made him hate the human race. How could anyone do that to an innocent child? The man had admitted it himself: he killed and molested at least six girls. WIthout thinking, John grabbed a small knife from the strap on his ankle and threw it out of anger, lodging it tightly in the wall before him.

"Bloody hell," he said after realizing what he had just done. His landlord would have his head for that. He walked up to the knife which he threw with so much force, only the handle and a bit of the blade was protruding from the wall. He tried to think of the best way to pull it out without making the hole bigger or creating a giant crack, but gave up and decided just to pull. Oops. There was a giant gash where the knife was. He coughed as plaster dust floated about the room.

He really needed a shower.

* * *

Freshly cleaned, the doctor laid on his bed with his laptop and opened up his email. His hair was still dripping with water which he attempted to dry out with a towel, but he paid no attention, instead, turning his focus on writing Nathan about the job he had just completed. He had mustered a full confession from the man's neighbor and led the police to the evidence; now all he had to do was wait and let the them do their job. Or hope they'd do it. In any case, he knew the man wasn't as well endowed financially (background checks, always important), so he only charged £5,000, a significant decrease in his normal fee. Frankly, he didn't care if he got paid before or after the job, as long as he got it all at once. If someone tried to stiff him, well, he'd take care of that with a bit of his own background digging and anonymous tipping.

John Watson did not work for free cleaning up other people's messes and he certainly did not take payment in installments. Too many options for creating a trail for unfavorables to find their noses stuck in. He usually gave them options. Pay it all now, or enter a binding contract that was skewered in his favor. That's where all of his connections came from. People would not believe the different types of clients he got; normal citizens, high profile citizens, politicians, government officials; the list was impressive, but his connections were more so. John H. Watson could disappear with one visit to a certain client he worked for many years ago. Actually, he had been hired on many occasions by a man who never physically made contact with him. Clever. Intelligent. At least he assumed it was a man; he didn't mind working for him, not at all. The client had paid more than enough each time John provided his services. Neither knew each other's identity and that was fine with him.

After sending his client a short message, John logged out of his email and closed the laptop, setting it on the ground. His wet hair was soaking up the pillow so he laid the towel over it, turned off the light, and tried to go to sleep.

xxx

The next day, John stood outside the trauma centre waiting for an ambulance that had phoned ahead to inform them of a drug overdose that had happened at the local university. Andrew, the intern, was on his service today. They shivered together as a chilly blast of air swept past them.

"D-doctor W-W-Watson, w-what's the ETA?" Andrew asked as he teeth chattered.

"T-two minutes, I think," John answered, rubbing his arms. He started hopping a bit to get his blood flow going. It was horrendously cold that day, but they had no choice but to stand out there. After all, a patient's life was hanging in the balance. They needed to be ready the moment the ambulance pulled up.

At that second, they heard the wailing sirens get louder and louder until they visibly saw it pull up. The doors swung open and the paramedics helped John and Andrew transfer the male college student with streaks of dried blood trailing from his nose onto a gurney.

"Alexander Hartridge. Age 20. Found laying in a middle of a bush on campus at the university. Pulse is 120, BP 126/80. Suspected cocaine use," a female paramedic filled him in. John nodded as they rolled the gurney into trauma room one.

"We need to give him some diazepam for his tachycardia," John ordered the nurse who nodded as he checked for pupilary response the moment he was rolled into a trauma room. The machine that read his pulse flatlined.

"Shit. He's gone into arrest. Rebecca, charge to 250," he told another nurse who immediately grabbed the crash trolley and charged it, putting the gel on the paddles as Andrew administered CPR. "Clear!"

Andrew withdrew his hands. John shocked Alexander, but there was no response. "Charge to 300," he ordered, trying again.

No response. This scenario was oddly similar to another he went through a few weeks ago. The doctor tried again a few more times, but there was no use. He called time of death.

Andrew looked sadly at the dead student.

"Cheer up, Andrew. It was his choice, unless someone made him do it, but everyone always has a choice in life. He chose drugs," John said as the nurses went around cleaning up and getting ready to take the body to the morgue.

Andrew took off his gloves and ran his hands through his hair.

"I used to do drugs," he told the doctor quietly.

John, although a bit shocked at the idea of the bright, innocent boy doing drugs, said nothing.

"I, uh, got into it because I thought my life was hard. Stupid, right? I overdosed. Almost died. Woke up and decided to change my life and decided to go to medical school. I didn't really want to die; who does? But this guy, Alexander, he won't wake up. He won't get another chance. He's dead, Doctor Watson," he said.

The doctor clasped a hand on the intern's shoulder and said nothing as they stood by the window, watching the patient's dead body getting wheeled out of the room.

xxx

"Ah, Mary, excellent to see you again. Have you been sleeping well?" John asked the patient in his office at the clinic. She sat across from him, smiling brightly and looking rather cheerful. Maybe she had gotten a good night's sleep? Today, her beautiful hair was let loose, cascading down her shoulders like a golden waterfall. He cringed. What was he thinking? This woman was his patient, not a prospective date.

The woman shook her head. "No, I've been having terrible nightmares on top of the insomnia, but I've brought my schedule with me," she said as she pulled out a journal from her purse which was situated in the other chair next to her.

John raised his eyebrow. _Why was she smiling then? He would be exhausted if he were her,_ he thought as he flipped through her daily habits. Wow. She was a workaholic.

"Mary," he mentioned as he read through the schedule, "am I seeing this correctly? You literally spend almost waking hour at work?"

She started stroking a strand hair with both hands. "Well, I'm not really a people-person. I don't have many friends and I haven't dated because, well, either my father scares every man off or we never really click."

She was exactly like John. Excluding that part about her father scaring men off. He hadn't spoken to his family in a while...well, Harry drunk dialed sometimes or actually called when she's sober, but he wanted to be apart from his parents. Away from everyone he knew. After seeing the things he saw in the military, well, he wasn't quite ready for that society yet. His post-traumatic stress disorder was repressed by his nightly duties which was probably unhealthy, but it was fine with him.

"Well, Mary, I want to go over changes we can make to your habits. Are you able to do it today?"

The journalist checked her watch. Oh no! She was late for a meeting.

"Uh, not today, doctor, but I really am desperate to get this fixed. How about we correspond by email?" she asked. John nodded and she hurried out the door after snatching one of his business cards off of his desk.

The doctor turned his attention towards his computer and logged onto his personal email, hoping that the other prospective clients he had contacted wouldn't want him to work today. He felt kind of lazy.

The first email in his inbox was a confirmation of an order he had placed for some new night-time goggles. His technology was slightly out of date and he needed to upgrade them. Even though he was a bit technologically challenged, he wanted to make sure his gear wouldn't die on him when he was out on a job. It only took one moment to screw everything up.

The second email was a meeting place for a certain...underground vendor of military-grade armor and weaponry.

Ah. There. The third email was from his client, Nathan.

_Doctor, I cannot express the magnitude of how much I thank you. Money will be wired within two weeks, if that's alright, short notice and all; you understand, yes? I await the news of his fate in the news. I have been contacted by the police already. Once again, I sincerely thank you so much, Doctor._

John smiled. He didn't really care about the money. He only charged to have control over certain aspects; he was no puppet. This was what he lived to do. This was why he did what he did.

This is why he was The Doctor.

* * *

Lestrade hovered behind the technology team again.

"Sir, it's very hard to do our work when you hover," a brave man piped up. He was taking it apart for the third time that morning as his colleagues went over the tape with high-tech equipment to analyze it.

"Well, I wouldn't hover if you got it done quicker," he said. The team had found no trace of tampering, but Lestrade had told them to go over the tape again to see if they could get anything at all regarding to the mystery hero. "If you hear anything at all, just a snippet of his voice or something, immediately call me," he said as he watched Peter go over the recording again. The technician had explained to Lestrade what he was doing earlier that morning, but it went through one ear and out the other..

Sherlock was waiting outside, sitting on a rather uncomfortable wooden chair with his hands raised in a type of meditation pose. He didn't turn his head when the detective stepped outside.

"Have you checked the particulates?" Sherlock asked.

Greg rubbed his temples. He knew he had forgotten something.

"No, but I'll get on that right away." He called over a random worker and ordered them to tell the tech team to send the recorder and its contents over for particulate processing. The young man saluted Lestrade and opened to the door, telling the team what their boss just told him.

The consulting detective stood up and walked away, a bit annoyed at the slow police work. If he worked this case alone, he would have already processed the particulates and figured out where the locations he visited.

"Contact me when you get the results," he said behind his shoulder to the exhausted detective.

xxx

Sherlock suppressed a yawn as he sat in his taxi which was waiting to take him home. He forgot he had a few clients lined up to come see him, but now, he didn't really feel like in the mood to talk to anyone. He needed time to think and new clients would only distract him from the bigger picture (besides, they were probably all boring cases). The cabbie pulled up outside his flat, took the money he offered, and left him in front of his door.

The detective immediately went to get a pen and some paper and scribbled a note, sticking it on the outside of his door, warning people _not_ to come in and disturb him under any circumstances, especially his older brother, Mycroft..

The younger Holmes accidentally kicked over a stack of books near his coffee table but made no move to clean it up. Details. He walked over to a drawer filled with junk and threw out the contents until he found the box of nicotine patches he had tossed there the last time he used one. He jiggled it and heard the contents shuffle around the box. Ah. Good. He had a few left. Sherlock opened the flaps and poured the remnants into his open palm. One, two. He put one on and was about to put away the second one back into the container when he decided against it and put it on as well. It was a two patch problem.

xxx

The curly-haired consulting detective laid on his couch for hours on end in his pajamas, ruminating about any possible pieces of evidence that they might have missed. His hands were absently strumming the strings on his violin. He went through all the facts and everything both he and Lestrade's men collectively knew about the man. Police or military connected. Morals: strong. Short. Wears black. Operates only at night, mainly past 8 o'clock. Victims attacked all have the same description of the man, so one. A loner, perhaps. Most likely due to the fact that he works during the day and during the night, indicating a lack of a so called 'social life'. Hops around, but always works around London which indicates he must live in London or somewhere near it. Cameras never capture him. Recordings: none. Knowing his degree of professionality, making the mistake of driving around his own car would not be made. Transportation: most likely public. Cab or the tube. He changes clothes, otherwise he would never be able to ride in public.

Sherlock wasn't about to admit it, but he was a bit at a loss. There wasn't enough evidence. His stomach grumbled, but he ignored it. He kind of felt like pizza though.

Pizza. That was it.

The detective scrambled out of his lying position and trashed his room, looking for every single newspaper he had ever kept recently, an action contrary to Mycoft's suggestion which proved to be a beneficial thing to do indeed. He tossed books, papers, magazines, mugs, empty cigarette boxes, case files, everything onto the floor.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock sat back down on his couch with an armful of old newspapers, all ranging from about four months ago to the current date. He through flipped to the classified ads.

"Oh. OH," he said aloud as he checked the D's. He hadn't realized at the time, but the odd advertisement that caught his attention may have something to do with the strange man in black.

He checked the paper from four months ago. Nothing. Three. Nothing. Two months...ah there. The first mention of a person in need for 'a doctor' began from about two months ago in _The Times_. The presence of the ads were sporadic. All different people as evident by the various methods of wording and email addresses, but all generic and asking for just 'a' doctor. Singular. Objective and non-specific. Nothing but an address. This time frame correlated with the time the strings of acts began.

The detective scanned the floor for a pen and paper. He picked up an old magazine and a marker, opening the cap and biting down on the black plastic to hold it in his mouth. He wrote down the email addresses, including the one from today's paper, and tossed the papers on the ground. He ran to his room to retrieve his laptop and created a temporary email account. He opened a new message and typed an email, sending it to all of the addresses listed.

Immediately, about ten addresses came back with an automated message informing that the delivery was not completed due to a nonexistent address.

Except for one.

_"_Interesting," he said with a hint of a smile.

* * *

**A/N:**

I think this chapter isn't that great. I apologize for its abrupt nature. It's stranger than normal. Lol

For some reason, I write very short. Concise. To the point. Unless I do a streaming of subconscious first person type of deal. Then I go on and on and on, tangents upon tangents, rambling to myself.  
You should see me when I'm alone. You'd probably think I'm crazy because I constantly talk to myself or just sit and daydream while doing something else Hahaha!

Also, I have no idea what I'm writing when I do the medical stuff. I mean, I look it up, but there's just so many different combinations of illnesses, medications, conditions...it's really hard to make stuff up. When someone overdoses, there are a lot of things that can happen and a lot of things you can try to counteract the conditions.

I hope it sounded like I knew what I was talking about. LOL I do get the general idea.  
I would become a doctor if I weren't so terrible at math.  
And you need math in science (chemistry, physics), etc, but if I were decent, I actually would be a doctor.

Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 6**

**Tracks**

* * *

A lone man limped down the short corridor of his flat, suppressing a grimace as he rubbed his shoulder and held his leg as he made his way towards the storage closet. He skipped work that day due to personal issues he'd rather not discuss with the chief, but since the man liked John, he always got away with it. Besides, if they ever needed him (which wasn't quite as often as one would think due to the small nature of the hospital he currently worked at), they could always call or page. The weather was making his old wounds act up; they were rather painful, but it was a weird kind of pain. Not quite painful, but numb and a bit tingly. Stranger yet, he could never remember how he got injured in the leg.

"Where are you?" the man muttered aloud as he rummaged through old rubbish.

John H. Watson, M.D. (also a mercenary by night) was currently shuffling through the junk he kept in his closet, tossing them over his shoulder and not giving them a second glance. After all, they were only obstacles to his goal.

"Where is my bloody cane?" he asked no one under his breath as he opened up a dusty old chest he forgot he had and sat on the floor to dig through it. Unfortunately, the blond mercenary was the type of person who got a bit distracted when coming across miscellaneous objects he hadn't seen in a long time.

"My old walkman!" he said excitedly. What a nostalgic object to come across. He sifted through the other things and discovered an old family album. Funny the things people kept. Photographs were snippets of moments in time, but John preferred to live in the moment rather than reminisce, but that didn't mean he didn't on occasion. He laughed as he opened the album up to a rather unflattering photograph of his dear sister Harriet. She had taken it upon herself to play hairdresser and after a bout with a pair of scissors, ended up with an asymmetrically short hairdo. John was too young to remember, but she cut his hair too, much to their mother's chagrin.

Looking at pictures of his family made the doctor feel guilty. When was the last time he had spoken to his mother? His father? Christmas cards and calls, New Year wishes over the telephone, never quite meeting in person. How about his sister, Harry? Oh yes. The last time they spoke was when she called him, pissed drunk. He worried for her as her drinking was becoming a bit of a problem. It had been for a while now.

John set the album down. He needed to find that blasted cane. When had he purchased it? Perhaps it was shortly after his time as a Captain in the military. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, to be exact.

He suddenly stopped what he was doing and his body went rigid as his mind raced through memories he'd rather forget. John uselessly shut his eyes in a futile attempt to shut the memories out. The things he witnessed; the things he _did _to save lives. Nobody warned him how much horror he'd see just being a doctor when he signed up. He had a nagging suspicion that he was forgetting something important though.

The doctor shifted his eyes back down towards the chest and focused on a thin, long piece of wood. His cane. He reached in and tugged it out.

The cane was a nice dark cherry wood color, polished pristinely even after all these years. John grabbed his shirt and wiped it down, sliding the cloth he wore down the sturdy cane. Letting go of his now-dirty shirt, he absentmindedly brushed it off and wrapped his hand around the contours of the handle which reminded him of a bird's beak. He leaned on it, letting the cane lift the weight off of his pained leg.

Relief.

The cane felt right like he had been missing it all these years, yet at the same time, it felt awkward. He didn't like to admit it, but before he began his mercenary work, John was very dependent on the cane and used it to walk around every day. Sometimes he'd have a relapse, like today, and required additional assistance in the mere act of walking. Such a pity. Oddly, it was always when the weather was rather overcast and rainy.

The doctor slowly kneeled to the ground and threw everything into the chest whether it was in there to begin with or not, closed the closet door, and limped down the hallway with his long-lost walking cane. He had forgotten to fetch that morning's paper as he was too busy trashing his flat looking for his blasted cane. He ran out of painkillers last week, so this was his last resort. He had illegally obtained the pills by abusing his power as a doctor and had forgotten to refill the bottle. Great.

He hobbled to the door and grabbed the folded paper that was wedged in the mail slot then proceeded to hobble back down to his lounge (living room). John waited until he got to the armchair next to the coffee table and set the cane down, leaning it against the table. He sat in his chair and lifted his feet to rest them on the platform. After settling himself down, he opened the paper and skipped the headline content, deciding to get to that later. He really hoped there was a job because he need one. Now.

To his delight, there _was_ an ad calling for a doctor. Well, technically there were two but one was a real classified advertisement for an actual doctor for hire in house-call cases and then there was his signature 'bat signal'. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

A new client meant work to keep his mind off the pain. Excellent timing.

John scanned the room for his laptop and much to his annoyance, concluded that he left it in his room. He absolutely did not wish to get up and walk, but since he was desperate for a job, he did so anyway.

After grumpily retrieving his notebook and sending an email in response-this week's passphrase being '_There are two doors adjacent. One is true and the other is false'_-John groaned as his pager went off. Of course. Rainy days meant car accidents.

* * *

"I would like to request information about a few advertisements that were run in your paper," a man asked a female worker at _The Times_. The woman looked up from her magazine and immediately straightened up at the sight of the handsome stranger standing on the other side of the counter.

"Would you, now?" she asked flirtatiously.

Sherlock slightly narrowed his eyes as he furrowed his brows, tilting his head about a millimeter to his left.

"Yes."

The woman leaned her elbow on the counter and nested her face on the palm of her hand.

"My, my, I believe that would cost you your phone number."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He didn't understand what was happening, and _that_ never happens. He shifted his eyes to read her body language.

Early 30s. Single (no ring, no tan line). Relaxed. Cleavage prominent behind her too-small shirt. Fingernails clean and manicured with 'french nails', or whatever it was called. Makeup: extreme and much too much. Desperate for marriage judging by the mixture of bridal magazines and fashion magazines stacked on the desk behind her. Hair: recently done. Perhaps during her lunch time as the smell of the chemicals salons used to perm hair lingered around her, stronger than would be pertinent if done a day or two ago not to mention short pieces of hair around the top of her shirt by the neck which would happen if hair was cut and fell off onto the shirt after the customer stood up immediately proceeding the act of taking off the drape.

The counter revealed about six inches short of the floor, enabling the consulting detective to observe the scene below. Her feet were slightly restless as she slowly tapped the ground with the toe of one shoe while putting all the weight on the other (he couldn't physically see it, but the shadow and sound suggested it). The woman kept smacking her gum. Mint. It was quite obnoxious, really.

Her pupils were dilated, a sign of physical arousal. Breathing rate accelerated. Cheeks slightly more flushed than before she set eyes on him. She was giving him a rather pained grimace. No, it..was a..smirk?

Oh.

Sherlock had two options. One: play along and work the information out of her using heavy flattery or two: ignore it and attempt to obtain the information out of her with the chance of failure. Manipulation was not easy. Well, perhaps to other people, but not to Sherlock. It was one of the perks of being a high-functioning sociopath.

The younger Holmes immediately gave a fake bright smile.

"I'm afraid the act of providing my number would require the information first, miss," he said pseudo-apologetically, "After all, business before pleasure."

The woman giggled.

"What do you need, sir?" she said in a manner she thought was seductive (but she simply missed the mark).

Sherlock reached into his pocket and fished out a list of all the email addresses he copied from the classified ads. He had asked Lestrade to run them, but they turned out to be expired addresses as Sherlock suspected. Each email address had a rather unspecific and generic user names, uncommon to those who frequently used email. The Inspector had even given him the time and dates of last activity, all of which were quite recently used within the time frame of the creation of the address and the purchase of an ad space at this particular newspaper. Of course, the detective had already scoured the other papers and found no trace of anything fitting the ads in _The Times _and thusly concluded that this particular newspaper was the conduit in which the man committing the crimes came into contact with requests, most likely with the promise of payment. He came to the company in hopes of finding out if the workers remembered anything about the customers or if he could somehow obtain the addresses and identities (if the clients made a mistake and wrote their true address or paid with a card).

"Could I request a most aesthetically pleasing young woman as yourself with the task of providing information from these specific customers who purchased a spot in the classified ads on these dates?" Sherlock said as he unfolded the list and pointed at the information.

"Oh, I'm sorry but legally, I'm unable to release client information," she responded.

Well at least the woman followed company legalities.

"Did I mention," he peered at her nametag,"Rebecca, that I am a consulting detective working for Scotland Yard?"

She straightened up.

"You're that man in the paper! My friend wrote the article. It's Shirly, something, right?"

Sherlock tried hard not to give a disgusted face at that name. It brought up memories he was rather very not fond of that involved Mycroft and a few obscene classmates respectively.

"The name's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

"I thought I recognized you," Rebecca said excitedly. "You know, I rather like detective stories and mysteries. I read the entire Nancy Drew series when I was a young girl."

The detective gave her a smile. Or at least attempted. A few minutes with the woman and he almost wished he had sent Lestrade to do his bidding instead. But definitely not Anderson. Never Anderson.

"I know I don't have an official identification card to present, but I was hoping an intelligent woman like yourself would have a keen sense of judgement and realize I _could_ get the Inspector I am working with to come down here, but that would be a waste of everyone's time and the felon I am pursuing would be_ that much_ farther away."

The woman hesitated.

"Well, I did see you in the newspaper...oh, alright. Anything for you, Mr. Holmes," Rebecca said as she winked at Sherlock.

She sat down on the stool placed behind her and proceeded to type in a bunch of information in the computer that was a bit to her left and out of view for the detective. Sherlock waited behind the counter and listened to her fingers tap away at the keys, attempting to drone out the office gossip she was sharing with him. He occasionally nodded to make it seem like he was listening, but the information she was providing him with had no place in his mind palace.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, according to my record, all but one account were paid in cash." She wrote down all the pertinent information (names, numbers, etc) and gave it to him. "And I, uh, hope you don't mention this to my boss?"

Sherlock nodded and smiled. "It'll be our little secret."

The woman exited the appropriate programs and turned her head towards his direction, raising an eyebrow and giving him what she thought was a sultry smile. "How about that phone number?"

Unfortunately, when she had looked up, the detective from the newspaper was already gone.

* * *

John, still in his blue scrubs, plopped down on the bed in the on-call room, exhausted from eight straight hours of surgery. Two cars had collided as one car had slid on rainwater and smashed into the other. A woman needed an emergency operation for the steel that was impaling her body. It was extremely risky, but she managed to survive, miraculously as the blond was somewhat used to treating wounds such as hers in his duration in the military. Doctor Watson had checked up on his patient moments before he made a bee-line to the on-call room, foregoing eating for slumber. He was in serious need of sleep to the point where he didn't even mind the scratchy blanket that was currently clawing at his face. He heard a knock on the door and someone opened it, but that was all he remembered before his body gave way to his dreams.

xxx

_Running on adrenaline, John dragged the soldier who was trying to save his own life away from the gunfire for hours until he couldn't hear a thing. The sun burned all the soldiers below it, as if it were condemning the events that were unfolding beneath its rays. Everywhere around him, there was nothing but sand and dirt. Not a sign of life anywhere. The soldier continued to scream in agony._

_ "Shhh! Shhh! We need to be quiet to stay alive!" John panted, attempting to coax the man from crying out in fear insurgents would hear and attack them, but it wouldn't matter anyway because they left a trail of blood. He couldn't tell from whom it was coming, him or the soldier. He was starting to feel dizzy from the loss of blood._

_ "S-stop. I need to treat your wound," he told the man. He also needed a break. _

_ John set him down and began to assess the wound._

_ "Take your hand off so I can see what happened," he ordered. The man slowly withdrew his blood-soaked hand away from his left eye._

_ "Oh God," John whispered. A sharp piece of shrapnel from an exploded armoured vehicle was lodged securely in his eye socket, piercing his eyeball and a good inch or two beneath the bone beneath the socket, tearing through the flesh on the upper portion of his cheekbone. Blood ran down his left eye. The force of the trajectory of the shrapnel most likely enabled the sharp piece of metal to slice through the bone. Luckily, it seemed as if it had stopped piercing his eyeball short of the optic foramen, meaning it was situated solely within the eye and not anywhere near the brain, but there was no way John could salvage the eyeball._

_ "Help me, please, Watson!" the soldier, slightly older than John, pleaded._

xxx

John snored so loudly he woke himself up. That was definitely not the first time he'd ever done that. Disconcerted, he realized he was half-lying on the floor and half on the bed. His head was using his right arm as a pillow.

Yuck. He had drooled on his arm. John got up and made a move to pick up the blanket to wipe his arm with, but hesitated. His scrubs, or the really scratchy blanket? He shrugged and used his shirt to wipe his arm. He stretched as he yawned, checking the time as he lowered his arm. He wasn't wearing his watch. Oh yes. He was in surgery right before he passed out. He reached down to his waist to check his pager but didn't feel it.

Excellent. It had fallen off somewhere. He looked around him by turning his waist and looking down to his right and found it on the floor. The doctor picked it up and checked it. Nothing. Good. Something caught his eye on the chair. Someone had brought him a sandwich and some crisps. Andrew, he suspected. The intern was like the younger brother he never had. He didn't know what time it was though as his cellphone was probably somewhere with his clothes. He grabbed the plate and reluctantly opened the door, squinting his eyes as the afternoon's sun rays greeted his pupils which immediately constricted upon impact. He shuffled down the hallway, basking in the corridor's orange glow from the sunset shining through the windows. John walked with the plate in one hand while he rubbed his eye with the other.

"Oh, Doctor Watson. Did you not go home?" Doctor Erikson asked as her blonde ponytail bounced with each nod she made as she spoke.

"Hullo, Doctor Erikson. No, I did not. I actually had a bit of a nap in the on-call room," he answered.

"Call me Natalia, Doctor," she replied.

"Oh, then call me John."

She smiled at him and then checked her watch.

"It's a little after 5. You should head on home, John. We'll page if we need you."

"Sounds good. Thanks," the doctor responded as he walked by, grabbing one half of the sandwich and biting into it.

He sat on a bench in the locker room where all the doctors kept their clothes and continued to eat his sandwich. Turkey breast, mayonnaise, a white cheese he liked but never knew the name of, tomato and lettuce all on wheat bread. Just the way he liked it. And plain potato crisps, salted. He began ruminating, trying to remember what his dream was about. Something from his military days, he presumed. The blond had been having a lot of those dreams. The soldier in his dream, the older man, seemed extremely familiar, almost as if he were someone that John wasn't supposed to have forgotten. Perhaps it was due to his post-traumatic stress. He thought his memories might be leaking from his subconscious into his dreams, away from the repression he had been forcing upon his mentality with the mercenary jobs. As unhealthy as it was, at this point, he really didn't care. His leg hurt and his shoulder hurt, but he had filched a couple bottles of vicodin before he went into surgery about eight hours ago. Of course, he was careful not to get addicted. He only took them because a patient's life was in his hands. He was also certain he would never get caught because John H. Watson was no amateur. If he could survive serving in Afghanistan _and_ avoid the law almost nightly, stealing a couple bottles of pills was nothing. He covered his tracks very well.

Well, perhaps not as well as he would hope.

* * *

**A/N:**

It is currently 5:17am and I am pretty tired.  
And hungry.  
But since I love everyone so much, I forced myself to finish this so I could get it out for the weekend.  
My week has been very chaotic, including today, but I knew I had to get this out. I've been going out running errands and doing all sort of things in preparation for the new semester.  
Parallel can wait since no one really reads it. LOL But that doesn't mean it's permanently on the back burner! I have loyal followers for that, I must write for them :)  
Plus it's fun.

If you could tell, I experimented with my style. Okay, not experimented...per se...but more like actually wrote a little more seriously. The chapters I've been posting were more first draft-type styles, not thinking of actual literary aspects but more on getting it down. That's why they were so short and abrupt.  
My actual writing style utilizes long sentences and insights.

This is a hybrid. I just made it less abrupt.  
But the chapter is short because I am tired. Haha  
I usually do a read over before submitting (I have no beta and don't plan to use one b/c this is a hobby I do when I have time) and that's about it. I didn't read through this one though, so it's pretty raw.

**Thank you for reading and reviewing!**  
Some of you actually read my stupid author notes I ramble on and reply. And some comment on errors which is always welcome too. It makes me giddy people actually read my story. ^^  
You are all beautiful people. hahaha


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 6**

**Paper Trails**

* * *

A female figure strode across the room towards Sebastian Moran who leaned against the only window in the dingy room, her heels clicking the ground with every step. A single candle provided the light source in the abandoned building and the room they resided in smelled musty and full of mold from water that leaked through the roof. The paint was peeling off the walls and some areas had huge bouts of plaster missing, exposing the bare skeleton of the wood hidden behind the dry wall. The sniper was beginning to think that Britain had a more abandoned buildings than was necessary, but that was advantageous to their agenda so he did not mind at all. Cycling through different meeting places kept them safe and away from prying eyes.

"The Professor wants us to keep tabs on him, you know," she said as she stood directly across from where he sat.

Sebastian gave no response, instead, choosing to chew on a toothpick that hung out of his mouth.

"Just because he let you go do your own thing doesn't mean I have to listen to you," Moran replied. He was heavily annoyed with all the females in his life. Why were they so irritating, thinking they could boss him around? Or thinking that he even wanted to _talk_ to them? It made no sense, whatsoever.

The woman merely raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and smiled, almost in disbelief. _Touchy, aren't we?_ she thought. "I am only repeating what he has said. No need for your input, Moran." She crossed her arms and looked past him, out the window into the night sky. "Regardless, he needs you to update The Saint. She'll be in charge. I trust you to relay the message?"

Sebastian grunted. The boss was making him a bit agitated these days. Why he chose to relay his messages through these amateurs was beyond him. He didn't trust anyone but the professor; not one bit. The man reached up his left hand and scratched the itchy skin underneath his eyepatch as his colleague waited for an answer. He hoped that if he didn't speak, she'd leave anyway. It was almost time to rendezvous with The Saint, that is, if she finished her other duties. No complaints though. Sebastian had it easy; she did all the work and he just shot people's heads off. Very nice.

The man's colleague's phone vibrated. She promptly began to reply to the message.

"Where are you going, all dressed up?" he asked, not really interested, but he thought maybe The Professor gave her a job to complete and wanted his help which is why he sent her to him.

Without looking up from her phone's keyboard, she replied, "Oh, you know. The usual. Some high-powered politician. Dinner, maybe a show at the theatre, then a quick liaison before I off him."

"That's disgusting. Why don't you just kill them instead of going through all that nonsense?"

The continuous clicking resounded from her perfectly manicured, red-polished fingernails. The woman's hair was swept up in an elegant manner, up and away from her face. As per her usual attire, she was wearing a very expensive dress and very much wanted to leave the dirty room. Her neck was hugged by a lace collar that extended and molded to her arms, leaving a small pointed elongated horizontal oval (which was mimicked on her back) where the black cloth of the skin-tight dress started clinging to the rest of her chest and body met the black, sheer lace material.

"Insurance, love, insurance. When I do my own agenda, I don't kill anyone. I collect information, which is why The Professor lets me do what I do. Valuable to me, valuable to him. Why do you ask? Do you want to join me for dinner?" she asked teasingly as she clicked send, facing the sniper again with her ruby red lips pursed in an amused manner.

"No," Moran said as he scratched his face again.

"Mm. Maybe next time. In the meanwhile, why don't you ask that beloved professor of yours to send you for a glass-eye fitting? 'Twould be better than having that thing scratching your face all the time, am I wrong?" the woman asked as she displaced her weight onto her right leg, letting her left hip jut out. She crossed one arm over her body, still clutching the cellular device, and raised the other perpendicular to it and habitually started clicking her middle and thumb nails together near her ear.

"Besides, you'd be able to go out more."

Moran never thought about getting a glass eye, but he ignored her.

"Where is he, anyway?"

His colleague gave him a mock face of disbelief.

"You mean he didn't tell _you_, Moran, his right-hand?" She smirked as he scowled at her. "If you must know, I believe he's in China. Or somewhere. Doesn't like to give details."

It had been several months since Sebastian had last seen the professor and several months before he utilized him to snipe for his own uses.

The woman hesitated for a moment before asking, "What happened?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean."

The assassin stood up from his slouched position. His boots made a loud clunking noise as they greeted the dirty ground. He knew she was not clearly asking about the eye, but about his past. It was something he never liked talking about.

"I think it's time for you to go, pretty lady."

The woman shrugged.

"Fine, but you better tell her. Oh and I've been told to give you the greenlight for the disposal the boss spoke to you about. Good bye, Moran."  
She sauntered out the room as Sebastian rubbed his small beard, wondering if he should shave it off again. He hadn't done that since his days in...he didn't want to think about his past.

"Let's have dinner sometime," she said as she walked away.

Sebastian chewed on his toothpick again and picked up a large black guitar case which he modified to hold not an instrument, but his sniping rifle. It made for a better disguise in case he needed to blend into a crowd, although his colleague did have a point. Trying to blend into a crowd wearing an eyepatch was absurd.

He walked over to the candle and burned the toothpick, leaving no traces behind.

* * *

"Sherlock, I think you should forgo finding a roommate. It seems impossible," Mycroft said to his younger brother. They were currently sitting in the older Holmes's office which was furnished with light brown polished wood for the desk and shelves. There wasn't much of a personal touch in the room at all, which was nothing unexpected. Sherlock thought his brother was a bit too bland in terms of holding his interest personally, but his brother always surprised the detective with his antics whether it was something sneaky he did behind Sherlock's back or something he did in what he thought was in his brother's best interest. It was a hindrance, really, when the government attempted to intercede your daily life because he thought he knew what was best for you.

"Why did you call me here, Mycroft. I'm on a case."

He hadn't really come of his own volition. His brother had sent men. Again. He would have fought them off, but they caught him as he was hailing a cab and shoved him into a car. They learned quickly from the last time that the only way they could get the detective to cooperate was by binding his hands, but this time, a couple of them arrived at their superior's office with a nice bruised eye, courtesy of Sherlock's head.

Mycroft leaned back on his chair, holding up a fountain pen to eye-level and examined it as the light from the fire made the silver on the pen flicker brightly. His eyes focused on the writing instrument as his mouth made a slight frown.

"So chaste, Sherlock. Not a good trait. Didn't mother teach you otherwise?" he asked, avoiding his brother's inquiries.

"No, you did not," the detective quipped back.

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he set the pen down and sat up, his reclining chair returning to its upright position.

"I am merely concerned for you, dear brother. Your lack of a social life is not healthy."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, and I suppose you have one?"

The brothers, as much as they would hate to admit (and they never would) were more alike than they thought. Workaholics. Extremely intelligent, but had the tendency to put others down. Very rational and judgmental. Just. Merciless. Both brothers used other people to do the gruntwork they didn't want to do, except, in Mycroft's case, people were utilized more often than not. Sherlock only did things that caught his interest; everything else could be done by someone else, but he stood in the shadows and echoed their every movement.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "That is beside the point."

The dark-haired detective stood up.

"Well, as much as I appreciate this mindless chit-chat, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what you want later. I'm leaving." He walked towards the door and opened it, shutting it as he left.

"Sherlock!"

Mycroft made a noise of annoyance as the door closed. It quickly opened again and two men in black suits forced the younger Holmes to go back inside the office.

"Very nice, Mycroft, using government agents to bully your younger brother. What an excellent use of taxpayers' money," he said sarcastically as he straightened himself out and sat back on the chair. He crossed his legs and placed both hands on the armrests, staring expectantly at his older sibling.

"If you must absolutely know, these men do so on their own volition."

"Hm. Yes, most likely."

Mycroft stood up from his desk chair and walked around to the fireplace that was burning at the side of the room. He picked up an iron rod and prodded at the wood. When he was done, he turned around to face Sherlock.

"I have a...request."

The consulting detective raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft put his hands in his pockets.

"That so called 'vigilante' the press is having a field day with, I need you to continue to track him down and keep tabs on him."

Sherlock scoffed. Of course, Mycroft would already know what he'd been up to. The government always knows.

"And why would I do such a thing for you?"

The older Holmes sibling racked his brain for a good excuse. His brother responded to logic.

"For the safety of the country, of course. He seems harmless enough, but you never know if his actions would escalate into something...worse," the older Holmes sibling responded.

Sherlock stared ahead. He didn't really care about 'the safety of the country'. It didn't interest him, but the masked man was certainly pulling on his intrigue. Out of pride he really didn't want to agree to assist his brother without some kind of show of resistance.

"Perhaps when I have time, Mycroft. I'm a consulting detective, not your lackey."

Mycroft knew exactly what his brother was doing (ever the same, he was) and took that as an acceptance of his request.

"Good. Now, out. I have work to do," he ordered as he shooed his brother out the door.

xxx

Sherlock found himself in front of a small house somewhere in Sunbury. He was clutching the address which was written on a piece of crinkled paper in obnoxiously girly handwriting. He had never met a female that made him nauseous in his life other than the woman. Nonetheless, he pocketed the small piece of paper and walked up the pavement as the cabbie that dropped him off drove away.

"Richard Compton," he said aloud. That was the name of the one man who used a credit card. Those who placed similar ads in the paper were competent enough to know to use cash. Unfortunately for Richard, he lacked the intelligence to realize that one should not use a card when purchasing an ad for a possible assassin or hitman. Although, Sherlock really didn't know what to call the mysterious man. He didn't kill anyone (yet) so assassin and hitman weren't quite the very definition of what he was. He looked back at the paper to confirm that he was indeed in front of the correct house. Credit cards were an absolutely damning piece of evidence when one wishes to create an alibi or hide themselves. It was all about the trail.

Paper trails, paper trails (or perhaps in this case, it should be called an electronic trail).

He had already gotten Lestrade to run a background check on Richard Compton and interestingly enough, his record came up clean. Those ads were definitely connected to the hitman. Assassin? No, those would indicate a person hired for murder, but this man wasn't a murderer (to the best of his knowledge). The modus operandi would not fit be considered as a correct definition as well. Those ads were connected to..."The Doctor". Perhaps that was his code name. Proper noun with a specific article of 'the'. Definitely his code name.

The detective walked across the stone pathway to the front door knowing fully well Richard Compton was most likely at home. His records had shown that he was recently let go from the company he worked at very shortly after his wife passed away. The dark maroon door was starkly contrasted with the white paint of the area surrounding it. The grey roof was missing a couple shingles here and there, but other than that, the yard looked well-kept and the house looked up-to-date. Well, as of probably a few weeks ago. The weeds in the yard were growing out again.

He rang the buzzer with a gloved finger.

"Mr. Compton? Are you home, Mr. Compton?" he asked in a pseudo-cheerful attitude. He was channeling his brown-noser persona to manipulate the man into trusting him.

No one answered the door. He buzzed again and banged the knocker twice, peering into the small peep hole.

After calling out a few more times, he heard a thud inside.

"I can hear you," he said.

The door suddenly opened just a crack and a lone eye peered through.

"What do you want?" Richard asked. From what the detective could see, the man was about forty years old, suffered from lack of sleep (bags under his eyes), and was most likely in a state of depression. Obviously. He kept rubbing his muscles. Aches. And his wife recently died. It couldn't get more clearer than that.

"I'm here to inquire about your...business transaction," Sherlock said. He knew the Doctor was probably being hired out for an incentive; most likely currency. What else would there be? Favors, yes, but as of now, the detective was lacking the evidence to prove that theory. Many of the names used to buy the ads were obviously fakes, so it was impossible to tell who placed the ads and what they did for a living.

Mr. Compton's eyes widened for a microsecond before returning to normal.

"I don't know what you're talking about and I don't care. Leave my property at once," he barked as he tried to close the door. It hit something and stopped. He looked down at the ground and noticed a large rock was jammed between the frame and the door. When had that gotten there?

Sherlock, ever the quick thinker, had collected a rock before calling the man out in case this scenario played out. While the man was speaking, he subtly slid the rock towards the door and in place without Richard noticing.

The detective gripped the door with his right hand slightly above his head.

"I must insist," he continued as he pushed his way in. Sometimes a little force was necessary to obtain information.

xxx

Sherlock paced the room as the man sat on his couch which looked a bit worse for the wear. It was clearly evident that he had been sleeping and occupying the couch for extended periods of time as trash littered the area.

"Now, I understand that you took out an advertisement in _The Times._ Who is 'The Doctor'?" he asked as he stood on the opposite side of the mahogany coffee table.

"I don't know what you're talking about. That advertisement was for a house-call. You see, my muscles have been aching terribly and the arthritis in my legs prevent me from walking in long bouts," the man answered.

Lies.

"Mr. Compton, no one would ever place an advertisement calling for house-doctor without listing specifics. You obviously know your so called 'ailments', yet you denied requesting for a doctor specializing in that area of medicine? Do not lie. I know exactly what that advertisement is."

The man looked away, staring a picture of his deceased wife. If the picture was recent, she looked to be about thirty-five.

"And what would that be? I don't even know why I'm talking to you. I will call the police. You are here because I have the grace to let you be, sir, but my patience is wearing thin."

Sherlock needed a cover story. Quickly.

He forced his eyes to tear up.

"I'm terribly sorry. You see, I'm the cousin of one of her dear friends. She treated me so well, like the sister I never had, and when I heard the news, I couldn't help myself. I need to know," he said in the most depressed manner he could muster. "I want to help avenge her death too," he continued, playing on the man's emotions.

Richard snapped his head back towards the detective, his ears and face turning red from anger. He felt his blood boiling.

"So you know too, then? Where did you hear it from?" he asked.

Ah. Now they were getting somewhere.

"I heard information atwitter on the streets, sir," Sherlock guessed.

"Oh. You mean the homeless," the man answered.

The homeless? Interesting...

Sherlock sat down on the armchair. "Yes, I did. Has 'The Doctor' contacted you yet?"

"Yes, but I haven't responded. Honestly, I haven't a clue as to what I'm doing..." he trailed off. His eyes teared up and he broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.

The man was useless. He didn't know anything as he obviously hasn't met the man yet. Sherlock had read her file ahead of time and discovered she was involved with a car accident. Nothing immediately prompted murder, but he had a feeling something else was going on. He needed the facts before concluding.

"Oh, poor Elaine. She was a wonderful woman, but if I recall correctly, she was scared of someone, wasn't she?"

Richard's sobbing died down a bit.

"What?" he raised his head at Sherlock and asked through tears as his nose sniffled. "No, no. Elaine loved her work!"

Her work? Rather specific, was it not? Something was afoot.

"What was her occupation again? I keep forgetting, Elaine, the poor thing," the detective asked somberly. He wasn't quite sure what to say other than 'the poor thing' because sympathy was an entirely different world he chose not to venture into.

"Sh-she was a secretary for a company executive at Randall Industries." Richard reached over to the table and grabbed a few tissues out of the box and proceeded to blow his nose. "Only ten years of marriage," he mumbled, fresh tears threatening to spill out again.

Extraneous information. Obviously Elaine Compton was in some sort of trouble and had not released all of the details to her husband. Perhaps she made a few troubling remarks but reassured him it was alright. If it was something she didn't want to talk about, perhaps it was something she didn't want her husband to know.

An illicit affair with a high-powered executive? She wouldn't be the first secretary to have relations with her superior. Perhaps she had discovered illegal activities in the company, but kept quiet about it? Or perhaps not as quietly as she thought. And the list went on.

"Who did you say you were cousins with again?" Richard suddenly asked.

Sherlock stood up and dusted his coat.

"I really must be going. Thank you for your time, Mr. Compton, and I am terribly sorry for your loss," he said quickly as he walked out of the house.

* * *

John was exhausted. He hadn't had a wink of sleep in almost two days, but from the moment his head hit the pillow, the pain in his leg kept him awake. His shoulder was burning. Earlier, he had taken two pills of Vicodin, yet nothing happened. At the same time, he was almost afraid to sleep because sleeping meant dreaming and the doctor had noticed a pattern in his dreams.

His memories were seeping out of repression and into his subconscious mind. After his stint in the military, he never thought or spoke of what happened to him to anyone, not even his sister. She had given him her old phone to keep in contact, but he never called her. When they spoke (rarely at all), it was her that usually called him, and not the other way around. He even lost contact with the colonel he had a near-death experience with...what happened to him? They hadn't spoken since they were both released from duty. He hoped the colonel was having a better time coping with life than he had.

John suddenly sat up and leaned over the edge of his bed, clumsily feeling the ground around in the dark for his laptop. The light on the edge annoyed him. Any light source was extremely bright enough to wake him up, so he had to place it under the bed to hide the light away. He never liked turning it off because he had set his computer to notify him if he received an email which were very important. Since his days in the military, he had learned to become a light sleeper. Waking up to defend himself was a manner of life and death.

He felt the edge of his silver laptop and grabbed it, bringing it up to his bed but almost dropping it. He logged into his email and found nothing. The last client he had responded to hadn't responded back. Perhaps he had changed his mind? He hoped not because the only way to ease the pain in his leg and his shoulder was if he had another job. He loved the thrill, but convinced himself he was doing it for justice and not for his own pleasure.

John closed the laptop and moved it to the left side of his bed and flopped on his back, staring at the ceiling. His fan was rotating slightly due to the fact that his air condition was blasting away. He knew he shouldn't stare at it because the more he did, the more it reminded him of helicopters and subsequently, bad memories he'd rather keep locked away. He laid still, but his mind kept wandering back to the burning pain in his shoulder and leg. He squeezed his eyes shut, internally debating whether or not he should take another vicodin pill, and decided against it. After all, he was a doctor and he didn't want to develop an addiction. He'd seen patients go through withdrawal and that was something he never wanted to experience, although, it couldn't be as bad as being a prisoner of war.

Suddenly, a quiet sound of notification alerted him that he had a new email. John scrambled to open up his laptop and squinted at the screen. His room was extremely dark, even during the daytime, because he had closed the dark curtains that hung in front of the windows. His client had finally replied:

_"The window shows the true truth," _the single line read.

That reminded him; he needed to change this week's passphrase. Anyway, John typed a reply, instructing the client to meet him at King's Park in Sunbury next week. After fleshing out the details, he sent it and closed his laptop once again, and headed towards his desk to grab his coat off of the chair. He put it on and left, his destination: the very heart of London.

xxx

The wind began to pick up and John shivered. He should have done this yesterday when it wasn't as cold! As the season began to transition from fall to winter, the weather began to vary every day, but it was evident that it was getting colder as the days wore on. The doctor took out a small notebook he carried around with him and wrote this week's passphrase on it and tore the page out. He neatly folded it into a thin rectangle and slid it in a crack between two bricks where a small sliver of mortar was missing. If a person didn't know where to look, they'd never guess there was anything in the wall. The building itself was a back alleyway where no one even ventured to which made it the perfect hiding spot. He trusted Lucinda would find it and carry with her, alerting anyone who inquired about The Doctor.

It was a nice trick he came up with. He paid Lucinda a small fee every month to be the code keeper which she usually used on drugs which would explain why she remained homeless. Since she was mentally out of it most of the time, she wouldn't be able to point him out if unfavorables asked, so his identity and his secret was definitely safe. She was one of the many homeless people that were connected with the underground society who were quick to catch on and follow The Doctor's example, so assassins, hitmen, and dealers usually utilized the homeless as messengers. Quick, clean, and simple. If they ever turned out to be...missing...nobody would miss them which made them the perfect vehicles to carry the word out. John was lucky enough to pass by Lucinda and offer a deal which she gladly accepted.

Another strong gust of wind nearly knocked the blond off of his feet. His stomach grumbled loudly and he left, deciding he'd grab a bite to eat before heading back home. He wasn't needed at the hospital that day. John walked down the street once he reached a main road with his hands jammed in his pockets and his head pointed towards the ground as he attempted to keep his neck warm by shoving his face into his jacket and accidentally bumped into a very tall, thin stranger who wore a thick black coat. He looked up, not recognizing the man even though he seemed rather familiar, but he shook his head.

"Sorry," he said, and walked away.

* * *

**A/N:  
**Ah, sorry nothing really happened, but I filled in some holes.  
This chap seemed to be more Sherlock-centric, but don't worry. John'll get his due in the next chapter!

The new semester started this week (yippee =_=), but since I ride the train to school, sometimes I spend those 40 minutes working in my fics. Haha. Yay for google drive! (no longer docs, just drive, but I can work on it offline without internet)  
Whenever I try to go to sleep though, I get really good ideas for TGD which is why I haven't updated my other ongoing fic.  
Don't worry, I have an idea for the next chapter in Parallel even though I haven't updated in like two weeks.

I'm also working on a oneshot, just because the idea came while I was trying to sleep.

Jeez.  
My brain goes into overdrive when I'm trying to fall asleep _and _while I'm sleeping.  
And things just run in the back of my mind constantly. I have sudden revelations and realizations out of nowhere.  
One time I was sitting in the car and I suddenly understood this physics problem I was struggling with. LOL

**Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate every single one of you!**  
Honestly, I don't know why some authors on here hold their chapters hostage until they get 'x' many reviews. That's..kind of stupid. I write because you all inspire me :D  
And I write because I personally _want _to, so I don't really understand why people get all huffy on not getting any reviews.

That's like JK Rowling asking every single person who read Harry Potter to give her a review before she wrote the next book.

hahahaha


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 8**

The Game is Afoot

* * *

In the very heart of London, past the smog and groggy atmosphere, there was a professor who educated bright young adult minds in the subject of Criminal Psychology. His knowledge on the subject was very extensive, so naturally, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective to Scotland Yard, sometimes visited (perhaps on a lesser frequency than he used to when he was younger) to have a bit of a chat or perhaps receive some insight from an outsider's view on a case he was...ruminating on. No, Sherlock Holmes never _struggled_ on a case; sometimes, sorting the information through his infinitely growing mind palace merely took a bit longer than usual.

He had not seen the professor in perhaps a few months and decided maybe it was time. As the lithe man strode along the pavement, not quite paying attention as he was lost in his thoughts, he shoved his hands which were encased in leather gloves into his pockets. The dropping temperature was no obstacle to him. In fact, the actually preferred the cold, sharp, crisp air to the stifling heat of the summer or to the pollen-ridden air of the spring sky. He continued on his way when something bumped into him and jolted him out of his thoughts. He heard a small mutter of "Sorry," and saw nothing but a head of blond hair until he turned his head to glance at the retreating figure, staring at the back of a brown leather jacket that was diminishing from his sight as the distance between the two increased. The stranger turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Was it odd that Sherlock Holmes found the voice familiar? He was sure he didn't know anyone of such short nature with a head of gold, but he brushed the thought away and walked on, deciding to take a shortcut through the marketplace.

As he entered the narrow alleyway, the hustle and bustle of the marketplace grew exponentially louder the nearer he drew towards the entrance. There were old women and men, occasionally a few young folk, hollering out the prices of their freshly harvested fruits and vegetables. Sherlock went past quite a few stalls when stopped as he reached the middle of the alley, recognizing the owner.

"Sherlock! My man! How are you this fine afternoon?" a stocky, muscled man boomed out to the handsome fellow in front of him who seemed to be physically opposite from the man in every way. The fruit vendor's golden ring shone in the sun above him as he gripped the detective's shoulder as Sherlock removed his gloves and enthusiastically shook his bare hand up and down in a vigorous manner.

"Greetings, Mr. Romano. I am well. How are you faring?" the detective answered his former client with a small, ingenuine smile.

Mr. Romano waved his hand in front of his face. "Please, Sherlock, call me Lorenzo. Business is doing great as usual!" he beamed. He turned to his left.

"Hey, hey, Paul! Look who's here, huh? It's, uh, that guy I told you about," the Italian man hollered over to another man two stalls down whom Sherlock assumed to be a good friend of his. The tall, skinny man wiped his hands on the white apron tied around his waist and walked over behind the flower vendor between them who ignored them and went about her way.

"Oh, it's the, uh, detective, right?" he said as he reached over to shake Sherlock's hand. "I'm Pete. I heard what you did for Renzo, here," he said as he pointed with his thumb towards his friend who was ran his hand over his slicked back hair.

"Yes, it was a small matter. Nothing to be mentioned," Sherlock replied when Lorenzo Romano pulled the detective towards his stall and patted him on the back (perhaps a bit more forceful than a simple pat).

The man let out a mirthful chuckle. "Nah, don't be so modest, eh, Sherlock? You got me out of big trouble. And I mean big. My wife would've killed me if that drug-dealing gang didn't get to me first. And I didn't do nothin' either!" he exclaimed as the other man, Pete, rolled his eyes.

His friend turned to Sherlock.

"Well, if I ever run into a pinch, I know just the man who I'll be running to, eh?" Pete said as he smiled. Sherlock dug in his pocket and handed him a card with his contact information.

"Yes, yes, any time. I'm sorry to cut this short but I really must be leaving. Have a good evening," he nodded to them.

As he began to walk away, Mr. Romano stopped him.

"Hey, Sherlock, take your pick, on me," the vendor said, spreading his arms towards his fruits. The detective hesitated, but picked up a couple pieces of fruits and held it up in thanks as he bit into one.

xxx

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. What a surprise!" a blonde secretary said, flustered as she watched the detective walk through the door of the office. She began toying with the blond curls that cascaded down her shoulder. "I'm sorry, but the professor isn't in right now," she informed him before he inquired. Not that he would. She knew him enough from the handful of times he's visited since she started working there.

"And when will he be back?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, he said that he would be returni-"

"-Now, now, Lucy, we mustn't disobey the professor's orders, now, should we?" a feminine voice interrupted, tutting at the secretary from a door in the opposite corner off the wall where the blonde woman's desk sat.

A rather voluptuous woman slinked through the doorway wearing a simple black dress that molded to her frame and black heels. Her fingernails were well kept and painted perfectly with a shade of blood-red that matched her lipstick. The corners of her mouth curved upwards and her pupils dilated at the sight of the attractive detective.

"Oh, my. And who may this be? Wait, let me guess. Sherlock Holmes. Am I right?" she asked with a smile that showed off her pristinely whitened, perfect teeth. She raised a perfectly plucked brow waiting for his answer as she leaned a hand on Lucy's desk. The blonde glared daggers at the disrupting female as if she were invading in on _her _territory.

Sherlock slightly cocked his head to the right as he analyzed her being. He had never met this woman before.

"Hm, yes. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. How do you do?" he asked, holding out a hand for a handshake.

The woman placed her other hand over her chest as her eyes darted from his shoes to his face. Lifting her chin slightly, she peered at him through half-lidded eyes. "My, and the man has manners too," she said, placing her hand in his and shaking it. "Irene Adler. Nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much."

The brown-haired detective nodded. "Pleasure." He turned his attention back to the secretary.

"Well, I see no reason for my stay if the professor isn't available. I must be going," he said. Sherlock reached down into his pocket and brought out one of the two apples he had taken from Romano's cart. "A gift, for the professor," he mentioned as brandished it in the air a bit before setting it down on the desk.

"Send my regards," he said over his shoulder as the two women stared at his retreating back, the blonde lost in a daydream while the other raised her eyebrow as she smirked.

Sherlock stepped back out onto the street and hailed down a black cab, one which immediately pulled over at the sight of his arm waving in the air.

As the detective opened the door and climbed in, the driver turned around. "Well, where to then, sir?" he asked.

"St. Bart's, please," he requested, and just like that, the cab took off.

Whenever Sherlock was in a dull moment on a case, he liked to go to St. Bart's and continue his experiments on the side. What he learned from cadavers and chemical reactions greatly helped in his studies and he felt like he was on the verge of breakthrough on one of his current experiments, one he had put off due to the sudden presence of the so-called "Doctor" that recently raised chaos for the men in Scotland Yard. It was a bit amusing, really. Lestrade and his men had neither hide or tail of this mysterious figure, and it was up to Sherlock to find out his identity, but he found himself a bit reluctant to break the spell. He didn't want to know, yet he did at the same time. It was thrilling; a challenge. Once he discovered and captured the man, there would be nothing more, hence, his hesitance in completing his duty.

Before he knew it, the cabbie had pulled up next to the hospital.

"Here you are, sir," he said as Sherlock handed him the appropriate amount of money before exiting the vehicle. He walked through the door as the taxi sped away behind him and turned towards the morgue. He had left his riding crop there last time and he figured he might as well retrieve it now on the way towards the lab.

"Sh-Sherlock!" he heard a female voice stammer out his name. He hadn't noticed, but he had just walked past a very nervous (and giddy) Molly Hooper, a woman who worked there and always attempted to strike up a conversation with the unwilling detective. She was of a rather medium height, average to skinny build, and had very light colored brown hair which was put up in a ponytail.

He turned towards Molly who bit her bottom lip and blinked rapidly at him as her hands fidgeted around in her white lab coat pockets..

"Evening."

She bounced on her heel. "What brings you here, today? You haven't been by in a while. Not that I was looking. For you, I mean. Well, I noticed you weren't here, but I didn't mean that I was _stalking_ you or someth-"

"-Yes. Well, I shall be at the lab if you need me," he cut off her rambling, and began to walk off. She smiled, her cheeks reddening.

"Oh really? I'm heading over there myself! I'll accompany you," she chirped at his back, scrambling to catch up with him.

* * *

As John walked down the street, he vigorously rubbed his hands together in a futile attempt to warm them up. His fingers were ice cold and no matter how long he kept them in his pockets, they refused to retain heat. The weather felt like it was changing by the minute and he really wished he had a thicker jacket on. He rolled his neck, trying to get the kinks out. Living a double life was definitely taking its physical toll on John, especially since he didn't quite limber up before his nightly excursions. If he wasn't careful, he could tear a muscle or stretch out a ligament, neither of which were anything he'd like to experience anytime soon. But he's been through worse things.

The doctor shook his head, immediately cutting off that train of thought. His memories were locked away on purpose, but his brain was trying to trick him into diving back into things he'd rather forget. He had lived through Hell. He had lived a nightmare and every day, he still paid the price if only in his sleep.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he checked it. An email, from an underground arms dealer. John scanned the contents of the message and scoffed. It was a bit unexpected, but the dealer had sent out a _newsletter _about the new equipment he had just received. Laughing, the doctor scrolled down and saw that the man, Erik, had even set up pictures with their starting prices below it. As he scrolled, something caught his eye and he pinched his fingers to zoom in on the screen and succeeded after failing a few times (after all, he _was _a bit technologically-challenged; Harry had given him the blasted phone and hadn't had the decency to explain how to work it). Erik was selling Walther PPKs, but the thing that _really_ caught his eye was a beautiful ivory, nickel-plated Colt1911 A1 .45 caliber. It was absolutely breathtaking and John wondered how it looked in person. The barrel was engraved with swirls of vines; it was such intricate metalwork, it looked like a work of art. Of course, he carried around a Walther PPK and additional small pistols and knives on his person at all times, but it wouldn't hurt to get another handgun...

He became excited at the prospect of buying another weapon. John H. Watson had secrets, and his love for weapons was something that most would find unexpected of his kind nature. He was pretty sure if Andrew, his intern, knew that he carried around weapons, he'd probably have a heart attack. John chuckled at the thought of his young friend, but stopped as he realized he was supposed to go back to work. He hastily checked his watch and realized he was an hour late! The doctor ran for it, hailing down a cab and barking at the cabbie to take him to the nearest tube station; he couldn't take a taxi all the way there. It was too far.

"Thank you," he said as he threw down a couple bills and made his way into the sea of people while making utters of "Excuse me," as he fought his way through, promptly buying a ticket. As he reached the edge of the platform, the doors were beginning to shut. Panicking, the doctor jumped and made it just in time, the doors clicking shut behind him. People were staring at him due to his brazen act so he cleared his throat awkwardly, scanned the car and sat down, miraculously finding an empty seat.

After a few moments, the lights began flickering as the tube went through a tunnel and John felt a weird sensation. It was a bit eerie and uncomfortable, like someone was watching him from afar. He turned his head and surveyed the people, finding not a single pair of eyes aimed his way. Towards the back, something crashed to the floor, catching the doctor's attention as well as several other people. A man whose hat was covering the top half of his face bent down to set a black, battered guitar case back to its upright position.

xxx

"I'm telling you, Doctor Watson, one more time and I'm definitely going to take action," the chief warned as John sheepishly smiled at him.

"Oh come on, Tim, don't be like that. I was all the way in the middle of London!" John said, nudging his friend. "Remember when you had a hangover and I covered your ass when that bus crash happened and everyone was looking for you?" It was a cheap shot, but John didn't really care. They were friends, after all.

Timothy laughed. "Alright, but seriously, stop coming in late. Doctor Robinson almost had a panic attack because you weren't here," he informed the blond. "And I do_ not _like dealing with a hyperventilating Victoria, do you understand?"

"She likes you, you know," John said with a chuckle as his friend's eyes widened, terror making its way across his face.

"No way! Crap!"

He patted the chief's back and walked out the office to change into his scrubs. Tonight was going to be a long night.

As John exited the locker room door, still in the process of putting on his white coat, he heard a voice call to him, "John! Doctor Watson!" John knew that voice anywhere

"Andrew. Evening."

The lanky intern beamed at him. "I'm on your service today." He rubbed his hands as the doctor was handed a chart from a nurse who smiled and winked at him and began filling it out. "So, what do we have?" Andrew asked.

John took the chart and bonked his intern on the head. "Who says you're scrubbing in with me?"

The young man merely smirked. He knew John better than anyone at this hospital; John wanted him to earn it, which he had already done in advance in anticipation.

"I already updated your charts and checked on all your patients. Oh and I had someone send Doctor Robinson to the clinic. I know how she gets when you're late. Oh and here," he handed his attending a cup of tea which John gladly took.

"You learn quickly, young grasshopper," he said before taking a sip, warming his body to the core. "But you're still not scrubbing in," he said.

Andrew lightly stomped his foot playfully mimicking a child having a minor temper tantrum. "Why?" he whined.

John rolled his eyes as he took another sip of his tea. "Clinic's short on staff. Go. There are flu shots waiting to be given," he said, shooing his intern with the chart. Andrew's shoulders slumped and he slowly dragged himself away after giving his attending one last pout combined with large puppy dog eyes. Doctor Watson responded by bonking him on the head again and walking off. John turned around and hollered, "But not before you prep the patient!"

Andrew groaned and changed directions.

Satisfied, John headed toward his patient's room when a man popped out of nowhere and grabbed his arm.

"Doctor Watson?" the male asked.

John turned around to face a skinny, well-groomed and well-dressed man. He certainly looked out of place at this tiny facility.

"Yes. Um, may I help you?" he asked, not quite recognizing the man in front of his yes.

The stranger shook his head. "No, never mind. Have a good day," he said almost in a sing-song voice as he slowly walked away from a very confused John, hands in his pockets and whistling an unrecognizable tune.

Down the hallway a head peered around the corner.

"Hey, Doc. Your patient's prepped and ready for surgery. I'll be going then. To the clinic. Where I have been banished.," Andrew yelled.

Roused from his thoughts, John turned around to face Andrew and noted he was coming, but turned back to look at the figure, but the mysterious man had disappeared from view. He turned and continued down to his patient and rolled his neck, preparing for what was going to be a long night of difficult surgery, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. After all, he _was _a doctor in the army and picked up a few tricks here and there.

* * *

Sherlock was concentrating intensely through a microscope which was focused on a slide of blood when he heard a crash to his left. Reflexively, the detective jerked his head up and caught sight of a clumsy Molly Hooper who was crouched over a spilled table of medical instruments. Files and folders were clutched under her arm. She froze and looked at him, giving him a sheepish smile.

"S-s-sorry. It just, fell. I couldn't help it. I mean, I could help it but you me. Clumsy Molly. It was rather all over very quick, and you know. I swear, I'll clean it up. Really," she stammered out to the attractive man sitting on a stool before her. He had already turned his attention back to the magnified slide just as quickly as he had turned his head to face the brunette. All it took was single glance to deduce what had happened, and he didn't quite care.

A silence settled over the pair with nothing but clinking noises resonating throughout the as Molly quietly picked up the metal instruments that had fallen to the ground. She winced every time they made clinking noises. She felt like she was bothering Sherlock and was a bit afraid he would come less often than he already did due to a want to avoid her.

Trying to strike up a conversation, the morgue attendant, still squatting on the floor, asked, "So, working on any interesting cases lately?"

He didn't answer, so Molly bit her lower lip and felt a bit silly. He was working, so he obviously didn't hear her. Or maybe he didn't want to answer. Maybe she was prying too much. She picked up the files she had abandoned on the floor to pick up the metal atop of the tray and stood up, tray in hand. She placed them back on the counter where they originally sat and moved towards the door to leave.

"Vigilante. Doctor," the detective uttered. It was so abrupt, Molly couldn't tell whether she had imagined his two words or if he actually said them, but either way, her cheeks flushed as _Sherlock Holmes_ actually spoke to her. She quietly shut the door and slipped out, heading to the morgue. She was about to begin a secondary autopsy on a man who had been murdered a while ago, an unknown man whom the police could not, for the life of them, figure out, but she didn't know _why_ they thought doing another autopsy would help. She had already done all she could in the first one and carefully noted her exact findings which included the contents in his stomach; essentially the dead man's last meal. Finding the correct container, Molly opened door to the massive silver wall which contained all the bodies. She wheeled the Joe Bloggs (John Doe) out and unzipped the body bag.

After a solid thirty minutes, the morgue attendant heard the door open behind her. _Sherlock_ walked in. She froze in shock again. What was he doing here? What business did he have?

He gave her a curt smiled and leaned over her shoulder, his body so close, she could smell him. He smelled nice. Her heart began racing and she began panicking. What was he doing? What did he want?

Without a second to spare, the detective grabbed her notes and began flipping through them.

Oh.

Slightly disappointed, Molly asked, "Um, is something of interest to you from my notes?"

The detective habitually started walking around the room making sure to keep within distance of the single light source in the dark autopsy room so he could read her notes. Molly had decided to turn off all the other lights because she didn't need it, after all.

"Hm. He's connected to a case I'm working on," he answered as the brunette continued her work.

"I haven't found anything new, if you're wondering," she informed him. "Did you make a break on your uh, thing? Experiment?" she asked, trying to keep up what passed as a conversation between the two, only this time silence welcomed her.

Suddenly, Sherlock started muttering, "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" under his breath. For a moment, Molly was taken aback.

"I'm sorry? Stupid?" she asked.

The detective shut the file and tossed it on the tray it was on. He waved one hand at her, his other located atop his left temple.

"No, no, not you. I, I have to go," he said without a single word of explanation. Once again, Sherlock left Molly Hooper gawking at his retreating back, the door slowly closing.

* * *

**A/N:**

GahHH! I am so terribly sorry I skipped the update last week!  
I worked on it here and there, but it never got done, mostly because I had a writer's block. lol  
But I knew I couldn't skip this week, so I tried my best to sit down and write, write, write.  
Thus, this lame..short chapter was born.  
SO SORRY! -_- Man. I need to try to write in advance, but a week is so short.

On another note, I developed a weird pseudo-narcolepsy.  
I would wake up at random times after school at home and find that I had fallen asleep. It's a strange feeling. haha  
Regardless, **thank you so much** for sticking with me and reading!


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
Chapter 9  
**

**Falling**

* * *

Doctor Watson sat down on his comfortable desk chair in the clinic office as he placed his mug of tea on a stack of spread out articles written by Mary on the desk and smiled as he checked his personal email inbox. Ms. Morstan and he had been constantly keeping in touch for quite a few weeks now. Their conversations had quickly strayed from medical advice to more personal matters; they had started out emailing on his work address, but as the conversations took a turn for the better (in his opinion), he quickly gave her his information which included his cellular phone number and his other email address. She had a way with words that didn't exactly help John's innate flirtatious nature, and even though she was technically a patient at the hospital, she was really considered an outpatient so it didn't really hurt to _talk_. After all, what would he do? Give her copious prescriptions for sleeping pills for her to overdose? If they started something more than just a doctor-patient relationship, he had no qualms passing her to his colleague, Doctor Douglas (whom he rather disliked), in order to ensure the legality and ethnicity of such a thing.

Pecking at the letters on the keyboard, the blond physician typed out a response, mustering up the courage to ask her out for dinner, firmly deciding that yes, he would rather take the risk for his personal life and pass her to Doctor Douglas. It had been a long while since he was interested at the thought of a female companion since he'd been out of the army, but he couldn't help himself when it came to Ms. Morstan. There was something about her that grabbed him by the heart from the first moment he had laid eyes on her. Before entering his military service, John admitted he could be considered as a bit of a philanderer but he hoped that his silver tongue didn't give her any ideas. It wasn't something that he could control; it was in his nature whether he liked it or not. Satisfied after proof reading his response, John clicked send and checked the outbox, a bit paranoid that it hadn't gone through. The veteran knew that as wonderful as technology was, it wasn't always reliable. After revealing that it had indeed sent, he logged out and signed into another account, his 'business' account. Or rather, his 'other business' account. It was a bit of a hassle to keep up with, but he had been doing a fine job remembering which account was which so far.

There were a few menial requests for reconnaissance and stealing back stolen artifacts that were mainly from rich bastards or paranoid lovers. How a vast majority of the common folk knew about his services was beyond him, but he was an expert at being untraceable, so as long as he kept himself out of the way from bigger organizations and other mercenaries, he was in good shape. As usual, business was definitely booming. On top of that, he hadn't felt so much as a twinge of pain from his leg ever since that rainy day when he dug up his old cane.

After replying to said emails and rejecting a few for using outdated passphrases, he saw that a small notification popped up the lower right corner of his screen, reminding him that he had a meeting with a client that night. He had completely forgotten about it and groaned. John really didn't want to cancel the dinner date he had just made with Mary, but decided he could do both and didn't bother emailing her to take a raincheck.

Bringing him out of his reverie, his pager went off, ordering him to go to the emergency centre immediately. He sighed, logged out of his email, and stood up, grabbing his coat that was resting on the chair as he walked out. He traversed down the long corridor, past the lobby, down another corridor, and finally reached the clinic. As soon as he stepped through the double doors, he saw a flash of golden hair and immediately knew why _he_ was called. The fact that there really were only a handful of people in the centre didn't hurt hi deductions at all.

Mary Morstan looked up, distracted by the commotion of someone entering the double doors and caught John's eyes. He face immediately lit up and the doctor noticed she was grasping blood-soaked gauzes to her right arm. After a second of being fazed by her beautiful eyes and cascading cornsilk hair, Doctor Watson stood up straight in alarm and he hurried over to her side.

"Mary! What happened? I'm assuming you asked to page me?" John said as he carefully raised her arm to look at the damage.

The blonde woman shifted her eyes to the left and let out a sheepish grin.

"How did you know?"

John shook his head a tutted, moving over to grab some medicinal supplies so he could give her stitches and put on some latex gloves. He dragged over a rolling tray and a stool to sit next to the bed and ordered her to lay her arm across the tray to clean it and then slathered some medicine to numb her arm when he was done. As he began to stitch up her arm, he raised his eyes at her expectantly.

"So?" he questioned, trying to be as gentle as he could.

Mary avoided his gaze and looked straight ahead.

"Uh, I sort of accidentally cut myself with a knife. You know. While I was in my kitchen. Cooking," she said.

John pursed his lips. "I thought you lived in London?"

"Oh yes, I do. I was at a friend's house, cooking. You know," she responded quickly.

That was a reasonable answer, John thought, so he didn't bother pressing her any further and continued to sew her skin as neatly as possible. He was no plastic surgeon, but he was pretty adept at stitching.

After a moment of silence, he piped up, "Have you checked your email, by any chance?" he said casually.

Mary tilted her head and squinted her eyes, as if she were trying to muster up the image of her inbox and shook her head, rattling the blonde curls that were neatly twisted into columns which hung near her collarbones. The other half of her hair was swept up and clipped in the back leaving her side-swept bangs to hang cooly across her forehead a bit over her eyes. "I can't say that I have. Why? Did you leave a message, John?" she asked shyly.

It was essentially the first time John had ever heard her call him by her first name. Sure, they had begun to refer to each other as such through their emails, but there was something about the weight of his name on her lips that made John feel like a shy adolescent discovering the opposite gender for the first time. He smiled.

"I, well I mean, if you can't, it's totally fine because I don't know if you're busy tonight-I'm sure you are-but I was wondering if you'd like to..you know, have dinner with me?" he asked lamely. For some reason, his silver tongue lost its power whenever he caught sight of the silky golden strands that rested on the head of the beautiful reporter.

Mary blinked her eyes several times causing John to go into a panicked mode. What if she rejected him and never wanted to speak to him again? What if she didn't like him that way? What if she said yes? What would he do? Where would they go?

Thoughts continued to whirl around the doctor's head internally while externally, he sat calmly, added the finishing touches to her stitches, waiting for her answer for what seemed like an eternity.

When he was done, he set down his supplies and moved to take the gloves off his hands when he felt a hand softly touch his shoulder. I looked up at Mary who was giving him a very sweet smile. For a moment, his heart stopped.

"Yes, I would love to have dinner, John," she said.

* * *

Sebastian sat in his small, dark flat, gazing in the mirror at himself. He tapped his glass eye and stared in wonder. His boss had offered to give him a visual prosthesis, but he opted to go for just an implant to retain his monocular vision which had proven its use in developing his sniping skills. If he had been given sight in his lost eye, it might have affected his superb marksmanship which he had honed with such skill, he never missed.

Never.

As much as he hated to admit it, Irene was right. It was better now that he had a fake eye because he could move around, blend in with the crowds. It was a definitely a much advantageous situation than when he wore his eye patch all the time. It did nothing but attract unwanted attention and it was just plain itchy all the time. Very annoying.

The sniper tore his eyes away from his reflection and scratched his chin, making a mental note to shave. He had been lazing around for a couple hours now, not wanting to tail that blond idiot around all the time. He really never understood how the Professor knew everything or where he got his information. That was the sole reason why _he _was the boss and Sebastian was his "lackey", according to his partner and The Woman.

Women. He didn't need them. They were nothing but trouble in his opinion. In a way, he hoped that his partner would screw up big time and would be 'released' from the organization which was precisely the reason why he "forgot" to relay Ms. Adler's message to her.

Oops. His bad.

He flopped on the bed and flipped open his phone, checking to see if the Professor had any jobs for him. Well, he was half right. He opened a text message from his boss who chastised him for getting off that blond mercenary's trail. Sebastian groaned, wondering how he knew, but hoisted himself up anyway and headed to his bathroom to take a shower.

He loved taking showers and never took having clean water for granted. He had learned that lesson the hard way during the time period when he lost his eye. The assassin shook his head, attempting to rid his head of the bad memories. He didn't want to remember, not even a little bit. There _was _something that was bothering him though, something he was forgetting, but he didn't have the drive or desire to hold onto that feeling and chase it until he found his answer. That was the past and he preferred to keep it that way. Out of habit, Sebastian reached up to readjust his eyepatch, but his fingers met the air. He touched the skin above the top of his eye, tracing the long scar that ran from a bit above his eyebrow all the down to a good half inch past the bottom of his eye, right where his eye socket was. Sebastian was extremely lucky all he got was a missing eye and a giant scar.

After shaving and getting dressed, he flopped on his pageboy hat and grabbed his guitar case, his rifle hidden safely inside, turned off the light switch and walked out the door, not looking forward to his extremely boring assignment. After a moment, Sebastian doubled back and fished out a couple throwing knives from his sock drawer for good measure. If he got lucky, hopefully he would get a chance to take someone out tonight.

* * *

The sun was setting, bathing the hospital in a warm orange glow. John and Mary had decided to leave after he had completed her stitches which really didn't take that much time at all. He still had a bit left to go in his work day, but it was almost time for him to get off, so what harm would leaving half an hour early do?

As they walked out the clinic and down the corridor, the doctor gestured towards the benches in the lobby he usually wasted his days on. "Please, sit. I'm going to get changed really quickly and I'll be back soon, okay? Won't take long at all," he smiled as she nodded. Mary sat down with her coat in her arms, observing the small, but homey lobby around her. John fished his phone out of his pocket as soon as he turned his back and sent a text to his client.

It had been a minute or so when a very skinny boy in light blue scrubs plopped down on the bench next to her. She wasn't one to be uncomfortable when a stranger sat beside her, but this young man was a bit too close for her comfort. Mary shifted, trying to inch over as discreetly as possible, just as the young man held out his hand, grinning at her.

Mary raised an eyebrow and took it, shaking his hand.

"Hello! My name is Andrew. How are you today?" he chirped.

The blonde was a bit taken aback, but she quickly regained her composure.

"Hello, there. My name is Mary. I am doing well today. Um, how are you?" she responded as naturally as possible.

The young man grinned at her.

"Are you Doctor Watson's date?" he asked, immediately causing a blush to creep up on Mary.

She nodded and looked down at her fingernails as if they were suddenly the most interesting things to look in the world.

The intern leaned back and propped his elbows on the top of the bench. He crossed his right ankle over his left knee.

"Well, I have to say, Doctor Watson did very well. What do you do for a living, Mary?"

Ms. Morstan felt a bit like she were getting interrogated by her boyfriend's father. She looked up at the red head with a bemused expression on her face.

"Why, Andrew, I am a journalist," she answered truthfully.

The young man's face perked up.

"Oh cool! I almost became a journalist, but I found my passion in medicine. I also got lucky, getting John for a teacher," he said mirthfully. "What kind of journalism do you focus on?"

Mary started petting her coat, smoothing it out. "I focus on crime, mostly, but I do it all. Ethics, politics, you know. Actually, these days I find myself writing about those recent rashes of vigilante acts," she told him.

Andrew's eyes widened. "No way! You wrote those articles? In _The Times, _right? I always cut them out and keep them," he said a bit embarrassed.

Mary was touched. Here, finally, was a person who actually enjoyed reading her work! _And_ he cherished it!

At that moment, John walked back down the hall, eyeing the two. as he zipped up his brown leather jacket and shifted his bag onto his other shoulder.

"Andrew," he said in a low warning tone. His intern smirked at him and stood up, walking over to his favorite doctor. He clasped the man's shoulder, patted it twice, and jovially sauntered back down the hallway, returning to his work.

John watched him leave for a moment before turning his attentions towards the beautiful woman sitting in front of him. Her sleeve was still rolled up from where John stitched her up and she was fussing with her jacket. Mary jumped up to her feet and looked at him expectantly.

"Shall we go then?" the doctor asked, extending his elbow out for her to take.

The blonde woman held on and smiled at him, "Yes, we shall."

xxx

"I hope you don't mind my attire. And where I'm taking you, It was...a bit last minute," John said to Mary as they sat in the back of a cabbie he had hailed down after they left the building. He looked down at his jeans, worn leather jacket, and his red and white plaid shirt. The woman shook her head. It really didn't what he wore or wherethey went as long as she was with him. She had never felt so much _feeling_ towards a single person and couldn't quite pinpoint what she felt. Did she just fancy him? Did she love him? Did she just...simply like him? Just like and nothing more? Who was this mysterious doctor who swept her off her feet? She had no idea, but the moment she first saw him sitting at his desk, she knew she would be hooked on him like a drug addict on heroin. He was handsome and polite. A perfect gentleman. Then of course, there was his subtle flirtatious nature. He wasn't aware of it, but she could tell, even under all the stammering he did sometimes. It was actually rather adorable.

Mary looked at her phone to check the time. It was nearing seven o'clock and the sun had set, casting their world into a dark evening. The reflection of all the passing streetlamps were mystical in the light of the cab and she felt content, but acutely aware of what was going on. She was on a date. The first date since...God knows how long. The car slowed down and halted, bringing her back to reality.

"Here you go, sir, ma'm. Have a lovely evening, you two," the driver said, flashing them a toothy grin as John leaned forward to pay the fare. He nodded and Mary returned a small smile before sliding out the door.

"I really hope you like Italian," the doctor said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Italian's my favorite," Mary said as she reached up to sweep her bangs back. They promptly fell back in place.

John helped her through the door like a gentleman and they were immediately seated at a table towards the back, overlooking the entire restaurant, as soon as he gave his name (the doctor had called ahead of time to make a reservation when he was changing). The couple looked around, impressed at his choice of dining venue. It was quite nice, really. There were white linen-cloth covered tables everywhere, the silverware atop of them glinting and twinkling from the reflection of the white lights there were strung up along the walls and around the corinthian columns. The walls were white and deep maroon on different sides, white being the dominant color. The victorian chairs were black on both the decorative framing and the printed cloth on the padding. On the east wall hung a great big mirror with a large black frame that matched the black of the chairs. It was a very posh and modern restaurant, but not too fancy.

The waiter immediately brought menus and drinks, offering a wine selection which they both refused due to obligations they had to tend to afterwards (separately of course). After ordering, the two blondes sat in a companionable silence, listening to the soft strings of violin music through invisible speakers, which was broken when John asked, "So, Mary, what do your parents do?"

Mary Morstan piqued at his question.

"Well, my mother died when I was very young, barely a child, and my father was a military man. I'm not quite sure what he did, but I he had been stationed around India for a bit," she answered truthfully.

John straightened up at the mention of the military. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss. Must have been hard to grow up without a mother," he said sadly.

The pale blonde woman waved her hand in the air as if she were brushing off his comments. "No worries. That's all done in the past," she said, "My father, well, he tried, but I think ultimately, being raised by an au pair was better for me in the long run. I don't know much about his military stuff."

John licked his bottom lip. "I, actually, was in the military myself," he told her.

"Oh really now?"

The veteran nodded. "Yes. Captain Watson in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I was an army doctor," he said as he gave her a mock salute.

Mary cracked a smile. "Well, if my father knew I was seeing a military man, I don't think he'd know what to do with himself. He'd positively _die _with happiness," she teased as John blushed and looked at his napkin. Where was their food? His ears honed in on the sound of clinking and mindless chatter from the people around them until finally, their food arrived.

"Table for two, please, under Compton," Richard Compton told the host. The surly looking man looked at his list and found his name. He grabbed a menu and nodded, gesturing towards the tables. "Right this way, sir."

The middle-aged man shifted his eyes around, trying to look for The Doctor, but so far, he saw nothing but couples. There was no way The Doctor would actually be on a _date_ here, right? But then again, he thought, The Doctor was a smart man. He could be part of the staff, or even the host. Richard squinted and glared daggers at the host's back who immediately felt a chill run down his spine. He shook it off and pulled out one of the chairs at an open table, waving his arm to indicate the customer should sit which he promptly did. When offered the wine list, he refused and ordered water. He had come here once with his late wife, so he also ordered her favorite dish she would always get every time they went there.

While waiting for his meal (after all, he might as well have dinner), he looked all around the room, trying to pinpoint anyone that looked like he might be a mercenary. For all he knew though, The Doctor could be a female, but he had an inkling it was a man. He looked to his right, but all he saw was the back of the head of a skinny man eating alone in the corner, almost invisible to everyone. Then there was a rotund couple laughing rambunctiously about some horrid joke he had said to her. Then there was a male dining with another male, two teenagers, and then a blond couple, and a lot more people that certainly didn't look like they could be The Doctor. He thought the blond man might have a possibility of being the mysterious mercenary, but he looked too small and...uncommanding. The blonde woman appeared to be a bit out of his league as well, but it was none of his business. Best of luck to that chap, he thought.

xxx

John subtly checked his watch as Mary spoke on about some article she was working on, quickly darting his eyes down towards his wrist as he held his fork. He had told his client to dine at this particular establishment at exactly 7:40pm. The minute hand struck the 8th hour and as if right on cue, the door opened and a lone man entered the premises. The doctor had a clear view of everyone in the entire restaurant, including the host, thus he was clearly able to watch as the middle-aged man with peppered hair sat down. It was a bit amusing to watch him shift uncomfortably, darting his eyes at each patron. When he almost made contact with John, the doctor darted his eyes back onto Mary's face and smiled, laughing at something she said. He didn't actually catch it, but she was laughing, so he followed suit. John reached over and touched her left hand, which was resting atop the table. A slow reddish tint made its way in her lovely cheeks, but she didn't flinch or move.

As both blondes were finishing up their meals after a while, the waiter came by and dropped off the check. Without thinking, John slipped his credit card in it and handed it back, not even bothering to check how much the dinner cost. Both the waiter and Mary stared at him. The dark-haired man made off with the check after raising his eyebrows which left Mary to interrogate him.

"Um, John, dear, don't you think you should have checked the price?" she said.

John was absentmindedly playing with his food, scooting the leftover noodles around the remnants of his alfredo sauce when he looked up at the sound of her voice.

"What?"

"The check." Mary nodded her head towards the direction the waiter left who had been in such shock, he had forgotten to clear their plates.

Oh no. John hadn't looked at it at all. Of course that would look suspicious, wouldn't it? The doctor knew fully well that he had more than enough money. This dinner was chump change, but if he were to get involved with Mary any further, she would start questioning where all the money was coming from. He had to think fast.

He forced a fake laugh. "Ah, the check. I, uh, yes. The check..." He pursed his lips. "I'm very good at saving money, so it's fine. I have more than enough. You know. I've invested here and there," he said, lamely. How he could master a double life but failed at such a simple lie was beyond him. Fortunately for him, Ms. Morstan chose not to push it.

The waiter came back with his credit card and receipt, finally clearing their plates as the two patrons rose. The doctor glanced over at his client and noticed he was still eating. It was alright. He would let him finish before texting him to meet up at the park.

As they exited the building, they both glanced up at the stars as they strolled down the street. It had apparently showered a bit while they were inside, unbeknownst to them. The sky was clear, providing a wonderful view of the heaps of gas glowing brightly millions of lightyears away.

"It's so beautiful, isn't it?" Mary sighed, a small stream of steam escaping her lips. It was chilly tonight, especially with the changing weather. The temperatures were steadily dropping with each day.

John couldn't help to agree. He lowered his eyes towards Mary whose pale skin and golden hair seemed to glow in the moonlight. He brushed a strand of hair back towards her bangs and out of her eyes, a futile move on his part as the strand fell back down. She slowly lowered her gaze from the sky to his face, her pupils clearly dilated. John leaned forward and their breaths began to mingle.

"Is it alright if I kissed you?" he murmured.

Mary made the slightest nod, and with that, John Watson closed in, kissing the first woman he ever loved.

* * *

**A/N:**

I know, it's late T^T Life is kicking me in the butt, but I'm still trying, for you guys! :)  
This is definitely not the end of the night. I was going to write more, but I felt like this was a good stopping point (also, it was getting pretty lengthy. lol)

Gosh. John is so cute.  
Also, IT'S GETTING THERE. The next one is where the ball really gets rolling!  
This is also my first time writing any type of 'romantic' crap, so, please, bear with me. haha. Not the best word usage, but whatever.  
I also didn't proofread this...so...if there's any mistakes, it'll probably get fixed later, but I just wanted to put this up ASAP.  
Also, my friends were being really moronic this weekend so I want to say: **don't drink and drive.**

Thank you absolutely positively very very much for reading! You guys are seriously the best people on this earth. (yeah...a totally unbiased, objective opinion...)


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 10**

**Mistakes**

* * *

Sitting alone at the table, Richard Compton spent his time concentrating on a plate of pasta until his phone vibrated. The host kept glancing at him, giving him pity looks because his nonexistent date never showed up but that was the only way Richard felt would allow him to eat alone at the restaurant without looking suspicious He checked the screen and quickly dropped his fork, waving for the check.

A few moments later, the client braved the cold, shivering as he left the warmth of the restaurant and into the chilling wind. He shivered and pulled his jacket closer to his body. Walking down the familiar streets (he lived in the area), Richard stopped when he reached the gate at the entrance of the park. There wasn't a soul anywhere to be found. He cautiously walked into the eerily empty park with nothing but the howling wind to accompany him, a bit fearful and a bit excited at the same time. He needed this; he needed closure on his wife's sudden death. He knew it wasn't a mere accident; it _had _to have been staged. The company killed her and he deeded to know why. The fact that he lacked the resources and means to do so hindered him, thus, out went he went to the seedy underground world of London to scout out an assassin. It was there where he caught wind of a mysterious figure named 'The Doctor' whom all the papers had been writing about. The mercenary's view on justice intrigued him and from there, the gears of fate started turning.

As instructed, Richard Compton found a bench near a giant, lone, willow tree behind what looked like a small forest at the far side of the park where it was difficult to see unless one actually roamed off the cement pathway. It was a corner of privacy, away from the many children, pets, and adults who usually occupied the green fields which was most likely for couples looking to have a bit of solitude. A shadow flickered in and out of the corner of his eye, so he whipped his head around but saw nothing. He figured it must have been a figment of his imagination.

A gust of wind blew his way and he shivered again, although his time, Richard was not sure whether the chill in his spine was from fear or the cold. He heard something shuffle in the branches of the tree and looked up when a cloaked figure jumped from the tree abaft the bench, startling him. He yelped out in surprise and jumped to his feet.

"Greetings, Mr. Compton. I am the Doctor. How may I assist you?" the stranger said to a cowering Richard as he walked from the shadows and into the single source of light from the lamp post next to them. The short man lowered his hood revealing a head covered by a black pageboy hat, but he could tell the stranger was blond. His eyes were covered by sunglasses-_'how could he see in the dark?' _Richard wondered-and his nose and mouth was hidden by cloth that was extended from his shirt, covering them like a mask.

"You're-you're the Doctor?" he stuttered.

John started pacing around the nervous client.

"Mm, yes. The third wolf sat alone in the den."

Oh right. The passphrase. Richard had practiced his line several times in his head in fear of forgetting it. "Uh, then the blue moon died on a whim," he said, feeling a bit silly at the whole prospect. The passphrase didn't even make sense, but he supposed it was an extra precaution so that one couldn't guess what it was.

John nodded as Richard simultaneously let out a breath of relief.

"My wife. She was killed. I know it for a fact," he began, "and I can bet you anything, it was the man she worked for. Her death wasn't natural."

The mercenary nodded. He had already done his fair of research and nearly had a heart attack when he realized his client's wife was the woman patient who died on his table on what seemed like an eternity ago. He had to take this job; it was his responsibility to see it to the end. His client's wife had died on _his_ table, and that fact alone made it a little personal.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss. I'm sure the doctor did all he could," he added uncharacteristically. John was usually all about business, but he couldn't help but feel a little bit responsible. "I've, looked at the circumstance and I belie-"

"-he was doing something illegal. My wife was always a bit on edge. She wouldn't tell me exactly what she found out, but I knew it was something bad. I think they figured she knew and they killed her," Richard interrupted the Doctor hurriedly.

John furrowed his eyebrows.

"Wait, what? Who are 'they'?"

Somewhere behind John, hiding behind a plethora of trees, a shadowy figure raised a rifle and aimed it towards the pair. Out of nowhere, John and the client heard the sound of sirens bellowing closer, but they didn't even fathom the thought that the sirens were coming for _them,_ right? They looked towards the direction of the noise, distracted for a second.

"I don't know. My wife, all she told me was one name," Richard said, returning to the conversation.

John took a step towards him.

"The name, Richard. Give me the name," John demanded.

"She-she told me the name...'Moriarty'."

The name slipped from his lips before the man crumpled to the ground. John looked down in shock. His client had landed onto his side after hitting his back on the bench, the side of his face leaning on the concrete. There was a clean bullet hole between his eyes, clearly shot by a rifle with a silencer. John turned around, grabbing the Walther PPK that was tucked into his pants on his back and looked wildly through the forest, cocking it. He heard shuffling feet march closer and people yelling.

The policemen! They were in the park and gaining in on him. Luckily, he knew the terrain better than they did. Never had a meeting gone so awry! He really should have taken the extra precautions to make sure there was no one else following Richard, but he failed to do so today because he was distracted by the many thoughts of Mary running through his mind.

He began to run towards the forest when he felt pain pierce through his bad leg. He tripped and fell, laying on the ground as the police found him, shining their lights from a distance.

"Over here! Looks like a homicide! The tip was right. Don't let the murder get away! He's armed and dangerous, I repeat: armed and dangerous!" a man yelled at his fellow men before he called it into his radio.

John grunted and hoisted himself up, fully aware that his DNA was now flowing freely onto the concrete and grass he had stumbled upon from a bullet wound. He limped, running towards the trees as able-bodied men began to chase him. Luckily, he had a head start as the men were still far from being anywhere near enough to catch him. John tore off his sunglasses, hat, and lowered his mask to give him a better visual and to create room to breathe. He widened his eyes, looking for the shooter and saw someone darting through the trees, away from the scene.

Being used to running under pressure with sustained injuries, the army veteran grit his teeth and went north, the same direction the figure had as the men began to open-fire behind him. It was darker in the trees than out where the bench was and he kept tripping over rocks and trees. He was being loud and clumsy, grimacing as he stepped on twigs that made loud cracks in the night. He could see that the men entered the forest as their torches (flashlights) beamed through the leaves. Something was hurling towards him and John squinted and immediately bent over backwards, falling awkwardly on the insides of where his ankles were as his thighs met as he heard a loud thud. He hissed at the pain, but worked through it, looking up. There, ledged in the tree trunk behind him, was a glistening silver knife. He quickly stood up and yanked it out, spinning it and holding it in his empty hand.

Obviously the figure who had thrown it was skilled with knife-throwing and it wouldn't be beyond him to think that he was probably a professional assassin. He kept running, but the blood loss was making him extremely dizzy (not to mention the pain), but he was doing a great job feeding off of his adrenaline. John could see slivers of the light on the main road on the other side of the park and a burst of energy shot through him. Suddenly, he heard loud barking and knew that it was a police-trained canine that was set loose to capture him.

He wasn't going to make it.

Out of nowhere, someone gripped his arm from behind and slung it over their own shoulders, helping him as he limped towards what would be freedom. Just how many people were in the trees? He yelled out in pain again as he felt another sharp pierce in his side and saw that another knife was thrown, but this time, it impaled his body where his ribcage sat.

"You've got to be kidding me!" he shouted as the man who was helping him out shushed him.

"We're almost at the main road," the stranger said. They exited the trees and the glowing orange light from the streets greeted them warmly. John's vision was fading and all he could make out from the man helping him was that he was taller than John was. Pretty skinny too. He thought he heard a murmur of, "Here, take this so you don't bleed over everything," and felt a heavy piece of cloth envelop him. The man also took his scarf off and tied it around John's leg before hailing down a taxi. He shoved the doctor in and they successfully escaped the sounds of barking as the cabbie drove into the streets of London, blending in with the torrent of cars making their way back into the same direction as John managed to utter, "No hospital."

* * *

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock ordered the cabbie once he lowered the blond man's body into the vehicle and pushed, climbing in himself. The driver looked like a kindly older gentleman with graying hair. The wrinkles around his skin seemed as if they were developed due to excess smiling, something he was doing at that moment.

"Right you are, sir," he said cheerfully and quickly sped off. After a few moments, the chatty man glanced back up at the rear view mirror to take a good look at his patrons. A short blond man was draped in the taller man's coat. That much was obvious. It looked like a blanket on the man's smaller stature and the dark-haired man wore nothing but a purple collared shirt. It was much too cold for one layer.

"Looks like yours is all puckered out, eh?" he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I suppose," he answered, not exactly realizing what the cabbie was implying.

"Had a nice night, I hope?" he asked.

Sherlock, who was looking out the window, didn't budge. As he stared at the passing lights, he merely responded, "Not quite."

The cabbie turned on his signal to note that he was taking a right. "Ah, that's no good. You know, if you want things to work out long-term, you're gonna have to give and take. Yup. That's my motto: give and take. Otherwise, you'll find yourself alone in a blink of an eye, left with nothing but memories of what could have been, what should have been, and what was," he advised, turning the wheel.

Sherlock looked at the rear view mirror at the cabbie who, at that moment, had his eyes on the road. The man was clearly talking about something that he wasn't aware of. "I...am alone," he informed, not quite sure where the conversation was going.

The cabbie tutted and shook his head, glancing back up at the dark-haired man's brilliant eyes. His own darted to the blond man who was currently using the skinny male's shoulder as a pillow. "That's no way to talk. I'm sure things'll turn around."

For the remainder of the trip, silence swept the car and Sherlock spent the time still unaware of the position John was situated in.

"Here, you go, sir," the older man said as he rolled to a stop. Sherlock leaned forward to pay the fare and exited the car, briskly walking to the other side. He opened the door and grabbed the mercenary who had fallen in the empty space Sherlock's body had occupied. The man was unconscious, so he had no choice but to carry him to the door. He scooped the stranger up with one arm underneath his knees and the other under his back and hoisted them up, struggling to maintain his balance. Even though the man was small and short in nature, he was definitely not light.

"Eh, do you need help with him, sir?" the cabbie asked. Sherlock grunted and struggled towards the door. He kicked it a few times with his foot, banging it to get his landlady's attention. After a few swift kicks, an older woman with a kind face opened the door with slight annoyance written across her face.

"Sherlock, how many times have I told you-oh!" she cried as she caught sight of the men before her doorstep. The cabbie drove off behind them and she quickly moved backwards to let them in. The unconscious blond was slipping from the slender man's weak grip.

"Mrs. Hudson, grab his other arm, please," Sherlock politely ordered as he lowered the doctor's legs down. Together, they struggled up the stairs to the couches, laying him across the cushions. The consulting detective took his coat off the man's body and surveyed the damage.

Mrs. Hudson gasped at the sight. There was a hole in the man's black pant leg and a knife was sticking out of his side. It was hard to see the blood on his black under armor shirt, but she knew it was pooled around the gleaming silver.

Suddenly, the stranger stirred and Mrs. Hudson jumped, letting out a little scream while covering her mouth as the blond man gasped and abruptly sat up as he woke from shock, the pain overwhelming his pain receptors as his adrenaline was no longer there to fend it off.

"Ah, you're awake," the detective calmly said, a bit too nonchalantly as if he _didn't_ have a bleeding fugitive in his living room.

"Al-alcohol," the mercenary gasped out. "Towel. Tweezers. Hook and thread. Now," he ordered, slowly raising his leg onto the coffee table. The older lady scrambled downstairs, gathering the things he told her to get.

He turned towards his savior. "Who are you and where am I?"

"The name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I was trailing your client when he was shot," the curly-haired man introduced himself. "You're in my flat because you explicitly ordered me not to take you to a hospital. Although I'm quite sure you need it," he said, pointedly staring at the man's injuries.

"Why didn't you just let the police get me?" he asked, his arm muscles bulging as he placed pressure onto his leg. His chest was heaving up and down, the knife moving with it. He grimaced and bit his lower lip to keep himself from shouting out in pain.

Sherlock, who stood before him with his hands in his pocket, pulled his phone out and began to text someone.

"Because you didn't kill him. And as much as I tolerate my older brother, I'm going to keep you here because he wants you behind bars," he said, not really paying attention to the bleeding mercenary. John scrunched his face.

"What? You're keeping me here out of _spite_ for your _brother_?"

Sherlock didn't get a chance to respond as they heard a pitter-patter trail up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson ran in with an armful of the things John told her to get and set them down.

"Are you alright, dear? Will a fish hook do? I pulled it out from my ex-husband's things. You wouldn't believe the junk he collected. Oh, and I'm so terribly sorry, dear, but this was all I had for alcohol," she said as she held out brown liquor.

The blond nodded. "That'll do," he said, reaching for what looked like a bottle of bourbon.

"Need anything? Tea? Biscuits?" she continued.

The detective, without looking up from his phone, grabbed the woman's arm and shooed her out. "Yes, yes, we're fine, Mrs. Hudson. Go make some tea," he said as she resisted a bit, wanting to stay and help, but she eventually gave up and left the men to their own devices.

After clicking send, he looked up to see the blond stranger tie the thread onto the hook after pouring the alcoholic beverage on it to sanitize it. The man stretched and shoved his hand into his pocket, fishing for something and pulled out a pocket knife. He sliced off the small triangular piece of excess metal with some difficulty, trying to make it smooth and then proceeded to fold up the towel and shove it in his mouth, clenching down on it. Sherlock tilted his head and watched with morbid interest as the man closed his eyes, drank a swig of the alcohol, and took in three deep breaths, yanking the silver knife out on the third with both hands. He let out a muffled cry through the towel as blood poured out and down his side. He quickly leaned to his left and poured some more of the alcohol on it, biting down hard on the towel. With deft hands, he proceeded to sew the wound with lethal precision.

"Doctor. Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked.

John faltered at his words and looked up at him for a second before proceeding to finish up his impromptu stitching. He spat out the towel and reached for the alcohol bottle, gulping more, trying to ignore the burning sensation of the strong liquor sliding down his throat.

He almost choked and coughed several times. "What?" he asked bewildered, but genuinely curious.

"I observed you in the park. Slight limp in the leg you got shot at. I'm assuming that was psychosomatic because you seem to favor your right shoulder and not the left-a sign of a previous injury, but that isn't the case with your legs. You don't favor one over the other. Obviously knowledgeable in combat and weapons. Able to function under pressure, a key component for a soldier at war. Tanned; natural. An obvious sign you've been somewhere constantly sunny-definitely not in London or anywhere near. Soldier, meaning army, meaning Afghanistan or Iraq. An army doctor, judging by your accurate precision in applying stitches and of course, there's the overall general component of the double life you lead as a mercenary. So, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John, slightly out of it, pressed down on his leg. "Wow. Amazing. Afghanistan," he answered as he took another gulp of the bourbon, but then realizing he forgot to ask the landlady for anything similar to a tourniquet. He took off the blood-stained scarf and reached down to his combat boots which were still on, and untied one of them, pulling out the shoelace. He grabbed the area of his pants with the hole and ripped it open to gain access to his thigh and secured the shoelace tightly onto his leg to constrict the blood flow. After hissing as he poured more alcohol on his leg, he grabbed the tweezers which he had sanitized ahead of him and stuffed the towel in his mouth, once again. He relaxed his body, trying to calm himself down, and when he got to a point where he thought he was good, he gripped the tweezers so hard, his hand turned white, and then dug into his flesh. There was no exit wound, so he knew the bullet was still lodged somewhere in his leg; he just hoped to God it wasn't in that deeply.

Luckily, he had to endure less than one minute of blind digging before he found it. At that point, his throat was sore from screaming into the towel and blood was gushing out and around the wound. He poured more alcohol around it with his other hand and gave one final tug to the stubborn bullet, pulling it free from his flesh. He was close to passing out, but he stayed conscious due to sheer will. He began to stitch it up like he did his side, but this time, he was dangerously dizzy.

"Blood. Get me blood. B negative," he told Sherlock. He hadn't told the man his name yet, but he figured he might as well because the police already had his DNA and could surely match it rather quickly in the government's system as John had military ties. The man was a detective, so it was only a matter of time before he discovered his name anyway. "I'm John, by the way. John Watson," he informed the slender male who was now sitting on an armchair.

Sherlock nodded as he stood up and walked to a room to the right of the kitchen. He came back out holding another coat. John frowned. "Sorry about your coat," he said, glancing at the crumpled black material forgotten on the floor. The detective shook his head, putting on the new coat he had just retrieved.

"It's only a coat," he said as he turned his collar up and coolly walked downstairs and out the door.

xxx

"Sh-Sherlock?" Molly timidly called out to a skinny figure clad in a black coat, ghosting across the hallway. She had some business to attend to upstairs when she caught sight of the detective, a bit curious as to why he was at the hospital at this ungodly hour.

The detective turned around, slightly annoyed. "Molly. Good evening. Or morning, I should say," he said, wanting to make his way towards St. Bart's blood bank. Molly straightened out her clothes and re-tied her hair, trying to make herself presentable.

"What brings you here? Not here to steal some pills are you?" she joked.

The detective tilted his head at her words. "Why would I do that?"

Molly's smile faltered. "Well, it was a joke. You know because...well, nevermind. What brings you here?" she asked.

"I need to borrow something."

Molly gripped the chart she held in her hands. "Um, do you want some company?" she asked shyly.

"No," he answered, "but I would like to know where the blood bank is."

"The blood bank?" she asked, a little confused. "It's...down the corridor, past the ICU and down a couple more corridors, I think. You need a key card to get in though," she told him.

A key card?

"Molly, have I told you that you look particularly nice today?" he lied. The morgue attendant shuffled her feet and subconsciously reached up to smooth her hair out. "On second thought, I think I would like some company," he smiled. Of course, Ms. Hooper couldn't resist and happily led the way.

xxx

"You know, I'm _really _not supposed to be doing this. I mean, if they find out, I'm going to get in so much trouble," Molly rambled on. "I'm not even sure my key card works. I'm just a morgue attendant. What do you need it for again?" she asked, sliding her card and punching her code in. The light turned green as she was successfully granted access. Sherlock made sure to memorize it in case he ever swiped her card and needed it.

"An experiment," he lied.

Molly pushed the door open as Sherlock swept past her, looking for blood type B-.

"You need an entire bag?" she asked a tiny bit incredulously.

"Yes. I'm doing several experiments," he absent-mindedly replied, searching the room. Ah. There it was.

The detective reached and grabbed a pint of blood. He led the way out the door, which the attendant pulled shut, and walked down the hallway. He slipped into an empty room and found an IV needle with the tube attached to it and shoved it in his pockets. He came back out to a curious Molly when he doubled back and decided to stock up on gauze and bandages because he clearly didn't have any at home.

"Is..everything alright?" the light-brown haired woman asked, eyeing the materials that were sticking out of his pockets as they stealthily dodged the nurses that were checking on various patients.

Sherlock tried to shove them further down in his pockets, but they weren't deep enough. "Yes, yes. Nothing of great matter. Thank you," he said as they reached the lobby. "Good night, Molly," and with that, he left her standing alone with her chart.

xxx

"John. Wake up," Sherlock said, shaking the unconscious mercenary. He really hope he didn't die of blood loss while he was at St. Bart's, but it looked like he slumbered off to dreamland after consuming the rest of the bourbon judging by the empty bottle and the stench wafting from the man's general direction. The veteran had taken off his gloves and his shoes. His small pack laid abandoned on the floor and the things he had used to stitch himself up was scattered all over the coffee table. The once-white towel he had screamed into earlier was now a sickening shade of brownish-red as he had mopped himself up with it and left the blood to dry. There was a plate of untouched tea (now lukewarm) and biscuits, one of which the detective swiped and shoved into his mouth.

"John."

Sherlock tried shaking him again. The blond stirred slightly, but continued to sleep. The detective gave up and rolled him over so that his right arm hung off the edge of the couch, deciding to administer the blood himself. He did have knowledge with needles, so it wouldn't be that difficult. He strung up the pack on the hook an upside down hanger he had collected from his closet and dragged over the coat rack for a makeshift IV pole. He hung the blood pack on a lower thick wooden protrusion and set up the tube and IV needle by connecting the tube hanging from the bag to the one with the needle. He then grabbed the abandoned shoelace on the table John had used on his leg earlier and tied it around the stranger's arm to create a pseudo-tourniquet. He rubbed some disinfectant he had nicked from the hospital and then slid the needle into the man's vein (which he had to poke around for) and placed some gauze on, wrapping a bandage around it. He made sure it was secure and working, then yawned, gravitating towards his room.

* * *

_"Captain," the man next to him grunted. John slowly opened his eyes and tried to move his arms, but he found that he couldn't. The two men's hands' were tied and they were hanging on hooks; their bodies were dangling and their toes were barely grazing the dirt below them. The pain from his shoulder was excruciating as a bullet was still lodged in his flesh._

_ "Watson," he reiterated, trying to bump him awake._

_ "Wha-where are we?" John forced the words out of his parched mouth. _

_ The soldier next to him tried to shrug. "I think...we were captured by insurgents."_

_ The two men could barely make out the room. It was as if they were in a cave, perhaps a tunnel deep underground, and only a sliver of light was showing through cracks in a ragged door in front of him. _

_ John turned his head to look at the general. His eye was in bad shape; he knew it was a loss, but he couldn't help but to cringe at the sharp piece of metal protruding from the cloths he had wrapped around to keep the eye steady. "Shit," he accidentally whispered aloud. "What happened to my unit?" he asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from the general's mouth._

_ "They're all dead, Watson," he said quietly. The general was there to observe their platoon when the insurgents attacked. Since John was within his vicinity, he grabbed the army doctor who was tending to a wounded soldier and was a valuable resource who must be saved at all costs, to lead him away when they were bombarded. It was clear there were no survivors, so without a choice, he and Captain Watson tried to escape on foot. That's when a tank blew up and flung shrapnel everywhere, and unfortunately, the general got the brunt of it._

_ "We need to get off of these hooks. I need to take care of your eye, General," John said dutifully, ever the army doctor._

_ "No, I think we're past titles. Call me Sebastian," he responded._

* * *

**A/N:  
**I was really excited while I was writing this. Lol**  
**It's also a day late because we're moving soon and we've been sorting through junk and throwing it out.  
Oh! Also, as I was typing this, I felt an earthquake! Granted, it was for a second, but it was kind of disconcerting because I've never experienced one. haha /end of random notes  
And as always:  
Thank you so much for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 11**

**Poison Pill**

* * *

Groggily, John slowly woke and looked around at his surroundings as his head pounded against his temples. He pushed a blanket off his body, not knowing where it came from. His vision was going in and out of focus, making it difficult to discern where he was, nonetheless remember what had happened. As it cleared, adrenaline began kicking in; his time in Afghanistan had honed his survival instincts, forcing him to assess his situation and locate resources in case of an impending attack. All he could see was that he was in someone's home, specifically a flat. There was an old wooden coffee table next to him littered with medicinal supplies, an empty liquor bottle, and a few science magazines as well as old papers that probably should have been thrown out by now. There was a fireplace on the other side of the room opposite to him, letters tossed carelessly on the mantle atop. A desk was on the wall adjacent to the fireplace with stacks and stacks of books, papers, and odd things John had never seen before. There was a great big skeleton head of what looked like a bull, headphones stuck on as if the deceased animal was listening to music even in its death. The book shelves located behind the desk was filled to the brim with all sorts of books: classic literature, scientific journals and articles, criminal psychology, history, and more.

Once his initial sleepiness wore off, he felt waves of pain wash over his ribs and his leg and became frozen in shock. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to will himself to overcome the pain. The doctor felt a pinching sensation on his right arm that was currently hanging off of the edge of the couch and realized there was an IV needle stuck in his vein. He followed the line up to an empty pouch of blood that was hanging on an upside down hanger which in turn, was hanging on a coat rack. He grabbed the needle with his left hand and ripped it out, tossing it to the side on the floor. Grunting, the blond attempted to sit up, but could not. Instead, he was met with searing pain that ripped through his flesh and groaned at the throbbing sensation that began as he lightly fingered the tender spots with his fingers.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a sleepy voice called out from beyond the kitchen. John lifted his head slightly off of the couch to see who had spoken and caught sight of a yawning, tall, lithe man with dark tousled curls. He was in the process of slipping on a navy blue robe over his grey cotton shirt and pale blue pajama trousers that had darker blue lines running vertically along the length which gave the man the illusion of having very long legs (not that he needed it; the man was definitely blessed with more heighth than John himself).

John squinted his eyes, trying to recall the stranger's name. He knew they had met before (and even if he didn't, it was evident they certainly had as he was most likely residing in the man's flat). "Sh..Sherly? Sherlock? Something like that, yeah?" he replied hoarsely, noticing how parched his throat was. He tried to swallow some spit, but his mouth felt like he had stuffed cotton in it. At the mention of the former, the dark-haired man grimaced a bit, but quickly shook it off. He strode across the room with an air of confidence as his open robe billowed behind him with his bare feet padding across the wood floor and promptly took a seat in an armchair that was facing the couch the doctor was occupying.

"Hm. Yes, Sherlock. John, correct?" he asked as the blond nodded, watching Sherlock pull the sides of his robes closer to his person. "I am surprised you are conscious. Injuries like that coupled with blood loss usually requires more time to recover, however," he paused, eyeing the man before him,"I assume your body has become accustomed to being on guard at all times, even in times of great duress due to your time in Afghanistan."

John gave him an impressed look and then turned his attention to his wounds as he lifted his black under armour shirt to take a look at the state of his injuries. Fortunately, the injury he had sustained with the dagger (_or was it a knife?_ he wondered), was more of a flesh wound that had luckily punctured between two ribs and had not hit his lungs or anything vital. After examining his careful stitching, he moved on to the real problem: his leg. Since he had torn his trousers the night before, he took a gander through the hole and lifted the gauze he had piled atop. It was in the beginning stages of healing and perhaps maybe for the first time in his life, John was thankful he had chosen to become a trauma surgeon. His deft fingers had done an excellent job, even though he had performed what was essentially surgery on himself without any anesthesia. That's when he remembered he had drunk bourbon the night before, explaining why his mouth was so dry and his head feeling like someone was repeatedly hammering blows to the head.

"W-water, please," he said as he leaned his head back onto the couch. Sherlock, the man's name as he correctly recalled, stood up from his resting position and walked over to the kitchen. However, unlike before, he walked rather sloppily as he scratched his back while he yawned again, dragging his feet across the floor. John heard clanks of glass and pots, a small explosion followed by an inteligible expletive, the sound of running water, and finally, footsteps signaling the return of the stranger. He held it out to the doctor who had sort of propped himself up on the arm rest at one end of the couch as much as he could. He gratefully took it and drank it slowly at first, but ended up gulping it all down in four gulps.

"Where am I?" he asked once finished with his glass.

"My flat. 221B Baker Street. London," Sherlock tersely replied as he turned on the telly. The news channel was broadcasting an image of John's face, not explicitly mentioning why but asking for any information regarding the ex-army medical doctor. The veteran suddenly dug into one of his pockets and pulled out his cellphone. To his dismay, it was broken. He must had landed on it when he fell in the park the night before. He was in trouble, perhaps a word that was a great understatement.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled out, startling John who jumped at the sudden exclamation. "Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled again. This time, the men heard thundering up the stairs.

"Sherlock, what is it?" a kindly looking, but irritated woman, asked.

"Breakfast, please. There's nothing in the fridge," he said calmly without giving her so much as a glance as his eyes were glued to the television screen.

The woman-Mrs. Hudson-huffed. "I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock," she said as she walked over the fridge and opened it. She immediately screamed and shut the door. "Sherlock! Why is there a-a _head_ inside!"

"Oh that?" Sherlock boredly called over his shoulder. "That's part of an experiment. Do please restrain yourself from touching it."

John raised an eyebrow. He wasn't serious, was he? An actual human head? At John's face, Sherlock scoffed and added, "Relax. It's from St. Bart's. An old cadaver used for medical students. I'm merely...borrowing it for the time being."

"That's stealing," John pointed out.

Sherlock darted his eyes towards the doctor. "And this is coming from a man who illegally assaults and stalks people for money. Hm."

The blond was about to retort when he faltered, blinking his eyes a couple times. "That's...that's different," he said lamely. As strong as his moral character was, he himself had some questionable methods, but it was for the greater good.

"Yes, yes. I'm sure." The consulting detective switched the television off and raised his legs onto the armchair and drummed his knees with his long, spindly fingers, bored of watching the screen. Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, was rummaging through pots in the kitchen, yelling Sherlock's name every time she found something strange, and eventually ended up storming downstairs. "I'll get you boys something from down here," she explained, shaking her head as she walked past them. The doctor couldn't help but wonder what horrors awaited unsuspecting victims in the kitchen just beyond the strange man staring at him.

Gingerly, John pushed himself upright into a sitting position. He was fine sitting as his stomach wasn't the area with the injury, but he had to take great precaution not to jostle himself around too much. Ribs were the location of one of the more severe areas of pain on the human body when injured, thus, he had to make sure the wound wouldn't get infected or inflammed or else he would be in another world of pain. Getting shot in Afghanistan was no walk in the ballpark, but neither was the injury on his leg. He know the bullet was pretty shallow and that his bone wasn't nicked. All in all, he was pretty fortunate with the wounds inflicted upon him. It could have been worse.

The doctor glanced at the blood-stained watch on his hand and spit on it, wiping it off on his shirt. It was approximately noon; he couldn't go back to his own flat as he was almost certain the police had already stormed in and searched every inch. He mentally patted himself on the back, grateful for his paranoia. He was wearing everything that linked him to any mercenary acts including all of his weapons and gadgets: his throwing knives and daggers, a Walther PPK, a colt, extra ammunition, a couple smoke bombs, his top-of-the-line night vision goggles, a hand-held scope, and a small pistol that he usually strapped around his ankle just in case. His pocket knife (which also contained lock-picking tools) was safe in his pocket. The only thing that could possibly incriminate him in his apartment was his laptop, but he had rigged it so it could destroy all contents remotely. On that note, he realized he had to do that first.

"Do you have a computer I can borrow?" he asked the detective. Sherlock was about to tell him to get it himself because it was in his bedroom-too far a walk in his opinion-when he remembered the mercenary in front of him was a bit incapacitated at the moment, so he reluctantly retrieved it. John reached under the neckline of his shirt and pulled out a necklace. On it hung a couple dog tags from his miltary days, a small, thin, glass square that held a tiny chunk of what looked like a part of a bullet, and a USB. He lifted it up and off of his neck and plugged it into the laptop Sherlock handed to him. A program immediately popped up and he was allowed access to his laptop. He turned on his own computer's webcam and to his horror (despite his suspicion which proved to be correct), a few lab technicians were splayed on the screen, hovering in front of the camera. Squinting his eyes, he stared at the identification card of the man who sat directly in front of the screen, noting that yes, indeed, his computer was taken as evidence by Scotland Yard.

_"Anything?" a voice called out. The three men in front of the screen turned their heads to the left._

"_No, not yet. We're still running some tests. This Watson bloke's a pretty good hacker; we haven't been able to get it past the log in page yet," one of them told the voice. _

"_Well hurry it up. I need Sherlock to take a look so he can get a reading off of it, or whatever he does. Anderson's men aren't done either. Honestly, the rate at what you lot are going at, I wouldn't be surprised if we never find him," the irate voice went on._

"_Sorry, detective inspector," another man piped up._

"_Don't be sorry. Be proactive. Hurry. Go or I'm going to kick you off this case and find someone who can actually do their job," he grumbled._

"It seems like Lestrade is in charge of your case," Sherlock said, pulling out his right hand from his robe pocket and pointing at the screen at a sliver of peppered hair in the corner as John jumped for the second time that day.

He hadn't noticed but Sherlock's face was literally inches from his own as he was leaning down, watching the screen the entire time. He most certainly lacked the understanding of the fundemental concept of personal space. When he had stuck his face in the screen, the doctor had no idea as John was too absorbed in observing the technicians to pay attention.

"Will you stop doing that?" he asked.

The man ignored him.

"Looks like I'll be on your case as well," Sherlock said, back in the position he was when he first leaned over.

John stopped paying attention to the men and started typing out code at an agonizingly slow pace on a program he had developed. He wasn't a master at hacking, but with what knowledge he did have, he could at least do this much. With each letter John typed, Sherlock became a bit more irriated.

"For a seemingly above average hacker, your typing skills are obsolete," he griped.

This time, John ignored him. Growing bored with watching him peck out keys at a snail's pace, Sherlock sat down next to him and grabbed a random newspaper on the table with his toes as his hands were still in his pockets. He tossed it in the air and caught it, opening it to a section he had dog-eared.

"Sherlock, I brought up some tea and sandwiches. I hope you don't mind egg salad, dear," Mrs. Hudson said to John as she brought up a tray, the same tea set that was on the table yesterday night.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. I'm Dr. John Watson. I'm sorry I haven't formally introduced myself. I apologize for yesterday, and...for making a mess," he said, staring at the blood-stained white towel on the table, "Lovely meeting you," he continued, a bit guilty for barking orders at her when they first met. Although, considering the circumstances, he thought she would understand. He also suspected that she brought up the blanket he had shoved aside earlier when she retrieved the tea tray.

The landlady began setting everything down in the same spot as the night before. Sherlock immediately reached for a sandwich. "Oh, that's alright, dear. I'm glad Sherlock finally has some company," she chuckled, patting the consulting detective's shoulder who continued to consume the sandwich with fervor. John's stomach grumbled audibly. "Eat up. You need your strength," she said, not bothering to inquire as to _why_ a bleeding stranger was brought into her home at such an odd hour. That fact alone made John curious as to what must have aspired for her to be so callous to such things. Who was Sherlock Holmes and _what_ did he _do_?

That name-it rang a bell. He was sure he had heard that name before; the man also looked familiar. John tried racking his brain as he ate and politely participated in small talk with the two. Well, it was more like conversing only with Mrs. Hudson with occasional murmurs and nods from the detective who seemed to be focusing his thoughts elsewhere. From the bedroom by the kitchen, a shrill telephone ringtone went off. The slender man wandered off to his room to answer it. Mrs. Hudson left to go back downstairs, leaving John alone sitting in tattered and bloody clothes. Sherlock returned, cellphone in hand and picked up his tea.

"Um, do you have any clothes I can wear?" John asked. Sherlock peered at him over the rim of the cup. Still drinking, he turned around and walked back to his room, returning with a beige jumper and a pair of dark blue, plaid flannel pajama trousers. It was clear that Sherlock's clothes would be too long on John's short frame and probably too small around the waistband due to his lanky figure, hence the man's decision to bring him trousers with an elastic band. John was probably not going anywhere at this point as the police were scoping the entire city and then some for him. The doctor took the clothes and began changing while Sherlock grabbed his laptop and watched the technical team through the mercenary's laptop webcam as the blond struggled with his clothes behind him.

John had gotten the jumper on with no problem, but he was having a difficult time lifting his leg as with each inch he moved it, it hurt like hell. He almost toppled over at one point, but managed to stay upright by hopping up and down on one foot. He pushed through the pain and successfully got it on then moved towards the detective to peer at the screen. He wondered why his remote wipe hadn't worked before they were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson when he realized he had forgotten to press 'enter'. He reached over Sherlock's shoulder and tapped the key. The program immediately ran a series of code inteligible to the detective and read 'done' at the end.

"_Wha-what's going on? Oh bloody hell! I think someone's doing a remote wipe!" one of the technicians cried out, trying to save the computer from essentially self-destructing. The other two immediately scrambled over and caught sight of strange symbols filling up the screen. _

"_Lestrade's going to kill us!" a pale-faced man who looked no older than thirty groaned as another frantically clicked the mouse futilely until the contents distorted and disappeared. _

_They sat in shock, staring at a blank screen and started coughing as smoke billowed out from the built-in vents. The computer was dying and there was no way to retrieve the information. They had nothing in hand as they couldn't even get past the encryptions on the log-in page. The program on Sherlock's laptop screen that was streaming through the webcam went blank as John's own finally died._

"I fried the hardware," John explained as he unplugged his USB, returning it to his necklace. "I added in tiny devices that destroyed the hard drive after I released the command code to erase my data, just in case." His paranoid nature forced him to make safety precautions that he had failed to follow on his excursions as The Doctor; perhaps it was the adrenaline and the excitement of it all that blinded him to reality.

"They should have x-rayed it," Sherlock mentioned, closing the top portion of the computer. That's what he would have done before starting any type of attempt to analyze it. Immediately, the consulting detective's phone started ringing.

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective curtly stated as he answered the call.

"Sherlock! Get down here now. We need your help," John heard a voice order. The detective rolled his eyes.

"If this has anything to do with the murder in the park yesterday, I am certainly not interested," he answered and abruptly hung up without an explanation. The blond eyed the phone.

"Are you sure you can..do that?"

"Do what?"

"You know, just hang up on him?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him and returned to his room. John sipped on his cup of tea, now lukewarm, and wondered what his next move should be. Several moments later, the detective walked back out clad in a white dress shirt and jeans as he held onto a blue cotton scarf. He was in the process of putting on a large, heavy, black military coat when he said, "Going out for a bit. If you need anything Mrs. Hudson's downstairs," leaving John to his own device.

The blond needed to get out and about, but it was impossible with the state of his leg. He could hobble around, but he needed a cane which was unfortunately laying against a dresser back in his apartment which he was sure was under close surveillance. He would be a fool to attempt to return. It didn't matter. Nothing there was really of any importance to him. It was just another apartment where he resided, nothing more, nothing less.

Something was bothering him ever since yesterday night, a niggling feeling in the back of his mind, but he couldn't pinpoint it. He brushed the feeling off and looked around the room and decided it was now or never. He'd have to start trying to physically stand up sometime, although, if it were anyone else, his medical advice would be to stay put and rest, but he was in no position to sit on the couch all day, not even attempting to start digging himself out of the hole he was thrust into. Usually at this time he would be at work...

Work.

Andrew.

John rubbed his face; he definitely can't go back to the hospital. Ever. He felt guilty for leaving his patients, especially the woman who went through a series of surgeries he had completed probably last week or so and even more so for the young intern he was rather fond of, like the little brother he never had. The sole reason why John had accepted the position at the tiny hospital (other than the amount of leeway that enabled his night time duties) was to prevent this sort of relationship from happening.

As his thoughts wandered, John's mind replayed the events from last night.

Mary! Oh, how had he forgotten! That was the thing that was bothering him. _Oh God, _he thought, _she must be confused at the news. _That and the lack of communication on his part due to his broken cellphone was probably a very worrisome thing for the insomniac. He needed to clear his name; that much he was determined to do.

With great fervor, John gripped the right armrest and carefully pushed down to lift himself up. He wobbled over a little bit and grit his teeth when a wave of pain shot through his thigh. He looked down at the floor and caught sight of a discarded bloody scarf not unlike the one Sherlock had put on just moments before. John used his toes on his left leg and slid it over to him on the wood floor. He picked it up and tied it around his right leg to apply pressure, hopefully to ease the pain that his movements caused.

"Alright. You can do this," he muttered to himself. He had done it before; just not in a circumstance with an actual physical injury. His recurring limp that haunted his limb forced him to take it slow on bad days, just as he was doing at the moment. The doctor took a tiny step forward and bit his lower lip to keep from crying out in pain. He needed a cane.

He needed _his _cane.

* * *

**A/N:  
**If you guys didn't know, I post up announcements on my profile, just fyi.  
Sorry I didn't update! I moved over the weekend and I have no internet until the 16th, I believe. I also had two tests, an art project, and a major essay last week. T^T It was absolutely crazy.  
I read all your reviews and see all the alerts and favorite updates and I don't know if you want me to comment back, or don't because it might be like spamming LOL, but I love you guys so much, even just for reading the first chapter. haha

**Thank you for reading! You guys are the _absolute_ best! **


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 12**

**Intruder**

* * *

"Hello there!" a blonde woman chirped as she looked up from behind the large counter towards the back of the wall Sherlock was heading towards. It was a massive lobby filled to the brim with people and with each step he took, his shoes made a clicking sound that became lost in the sea of clicking made by the copious amounts of workers briskly walking about with purpose.

The detective reached the counter and raised his elbows onto it, clasping his leather-clad hands. He gave her a grin. "Good afternoon, Ms-" he glanced at her nametag, "Collins," he finished as he watched her face her computer screen.

The woman typed something and looked back up at him. "How may I assist you?"

"I need to see Mr. Randall, please. It's an important matter that must be attended by him and him only."

The woman grabbed a pen and scratched the back of her scalp with it. "I'm sorry but you need to make an appointment," she said without really giving so much as a glance at him.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and lowered his voice, leaning in as if he were attempting to minimize the volume of his voice so that the other employees and visitors walking around behind him wouldn't hear. "I'm afraid I must ask you to keep this request strictly under wraps. No one must know I came by. Mr. Randall knows I'm coming and he does not want to take the risk of alerting the vice president by your call." She shot him a puzzled expression.

"I'm sorry?"

"You see, Ms., I was sent by the head of the company to do a bit of reconnaissance inspecting on how things are running at some of the factories and I would hate to inform them that the employees in the lobby aren't exactly paying one hundred percent attention to the important visitors that walk through this door, now would I?" Ms. Collins widened her eyes. She had been slacking off lately, so even as much as a whisper of trouble would mean she was done for at this company.

"A-alright. Go on through." She pressed a button and the glass doors to her left slid open. "His office is on the top floor."

Sherlock gave her a smile of thanks and walked on. He knew the president wasn't there because the president was dead, lying in a morgue at St. Barts, but it was interesting that his employees didn't know he was missing. Perhaps it was because she was a lower-level employee, but the detective was interested to find out exactly what the higher ups were doing to keep such scandalous news quiet.

He pressed the up arrow on the lift and it immediately opened up to a nice interior of dark cherry wood walls. The detective stepped inside and pressed the highest button for the penultimate floor, 39, while simultaneously pressing the 'close' button to make sure the car rode straight to his floor and not stopping along the way to pick up stragglers. He assumed the lack of the number '40' was due to the president's office being accessible only on a different elevator as to not be disturbed. The lift shot up and began carrying the dark-haired man to his destination. After a few torturous seconds of listening to bad music that blared out through speakers from the side walls at the bottom, Sherlock's phone rang. He reached into his pocket and answered it.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock!" an exasperated voice almost yelled into the phone. "Where are you? I told you to be here about an hour ago!"

The detective rolled his eyes. "I'll get there later, Lestrade. I'm busy."

And with that, he hung up, cutting off whatever the Detective Inspector was rambling on about. _Really, the man needed to mind his own business, _he thought as the car seemed to slow down.

The door suddenly slid open with a ding, revealing a chaotic scene before him. Several people were running around; others were tossing papers, searching for a document that disappeared. Phones were ringing off the hooks as employees answered and argued, yelled, transferred calls, held them, or hung up unceremoniously. Sherlock, the epitome of calmness in this disarray, walked straight through the apocalyptic scene and made his way down the hallway to make his way towards the lift that would carry him up to Mr. Randall's office. It was evident that these particular employees were fully aware of their missing CEO. The only reason why anyone would try to cover up his absence would be the threat of a company take over by unscrupulous folk. Mr. Randall must have been knee-deep in something sinister to wind up dead like that, leaving his people frantic and clueless.

After reaching the end of the corridor, another lift was awaiting him. The lights were flickering above him, an eerie observation Sherlock pushed out of his mind. Irrelevant information. He pressed the arrow and like earlier, the doors slid open as he informed the machinery he wished to go up. He once again, stepped into another lift and pressed the only button that existed and stood still on the short-lived ride. The doors opened to reveal the exact antithesis of the floor downstairs-an empty office. Or what he assumed was an empty office. There was no secretary sitting at the desk, but he did catch a glimpse of a framed picture resting on wood. A woman stood smiling with a man, her husband. The man Sherlock spoke to. What was his name? Richard Compton, he believed. The man that started this all.

He moved on towards the door of the actual office and gripped the handle, pulling it down. He yanked the heavy door open and looked ahead, immediately realizing someone was sitting on the black leather swivel chair behind the desk. The back was turned towards him, but the air displacement in the room made it evident. Sherlock casually reached one hand into his pocket and gripped the handle of his gun as the chair rotated towards the left and the stranger occupying the seat turned to face the detective.

"How may I assist you, Mr. Holmes?" a plump, elderly man asked as he removed his glasses and set them precariously on the table.

Sherlock did not recognize the stranger, but a quick glance at his expensive suit and watch informed him that the man was of a high position. The vice president. He had done his share of research and it was public knowledge the vice president and the CEO did not get along quite as nicely as they'd like everyone to hope, and of course, no one would dare sit in the president's chair other than those with high status.

"I saw you come up and recognized you from the papers. You're getting quite famous, you know," he said as tucked his smart phone into his chest pocket. The man leaned over and grabbed a small glass bottle that contained a brown liquid, most likely an alcoholic beverage. With steady, weathered hands, he poured a cup and slid it towards the detective then refilled his own. He took a sip and stared at the man still standing in the doorway. "Please, sit," he gestured. "How may I help you?" he reiterated his question from before.

Sherlock didn't budge.

The man sighed and set his cup down to the side, leaning forward at a more rapt position. "My hands are clean, Mr. Holmes. I don't know where Mr. Randall is, and frankly, I don't care. I will cooperate with you, if you want," he said, spreading his hands out towards the detective.

Sherlock squinted, reading the man's body language. His steady, but labored breathing, normal pupils, defenseless and open position, and direct eye contact convinced Sherlock that the old man wasn't lying, but he knew something was being kept a secret and he intended to find out what. "When was the last time you spoke to him?" he asked.

The old man scrunched his face in thought. "I think the day his secretary was hit by that truck. After that, I don't know. He left for home and never came back."

"And he wasn't home?"

"No, he wasn't, but I'll give you his address. Just wait a moment." The vice president looked around the massive desk, not finding what he was looking for. He swiveled the chair slightly to his right and opened the drawer on the right side of the desk and caught sight of a post-it note. He grabbed the small stack and picked a fancy fountain pen from a cup-holder and wrote an address down. "If you need anything further, please do not hesitate to call, although I must warn you, I will be very busy running the company."

Sherlock saw a ghost of smile graze the man's lips before he turned the chair back around, staring out into the depths of the city. "You may leave," he politely ordered, dismissing him.

Impatient, the detective gave up the facade of being polite and pulled out his gun, cocking it. At the sound, the chair slowly rotated back towards the curly-haired man. "Well, this is rather rash of you, is it not?" the vice president asked as he took a languid sip of his beverage, not batting an eyelash.

Sherlock uncocked it and gave it a twirl on his finger before pocketing it once more. "Needed a quick way to catch your attention," he brushed the older gentleman off. "Now, tell me before I call the Inspector to come arrest you. What do you know?"

The old man licked his lips. A slight tremble of his hand told Sherlock he was nervous. "Very well. I heard him talking on the phone right after his secretary left."

The detective nodded, prompting the man to go on.

"Whispers. A name. I don't know. Something starting with an M, I think. It was a woman," he added as he stared at nothing in particular, scrunching his face in an attempt to remember exactly what he had heard that evening. "He left for home, I believe, shortly after. Never saw him again."

The detective left, having gathered all the information he needed and wondered why the man wanted to withhold that particular piece of information. This man was indeed innocent, but something was hidden behind the veil, that much was for sure.

xxx

"Sherlock, I need you to take a look at this," Lestrade said as he threw down a navy blue folder before the detective. The inspector turned around and rubbed his chin, pacing around the desk Sherlock sat at. The dark-haired man opened it and was greeted with a picture of the wounded felon residing in his flat back at Baker Street. John was in his military attire in the photo, his face stiff and his posture rigid. Lestrade essentially handed Sherlock John's entire background. "Can you tell me anything from this?"

The detective flipped through the files.

"I had the team run the DNA found at the murder scene from last night. There was enough blood to pull an ID, but..."

Sherlock looked up.

"...But you don't think he's the murderer. Hence the reason why you gave me these files. Because the pieces don't fit."

Lestrade looked at his consultor and nodded. He rubbed his face and put his hands on his hips underneath his jacket. "The trajectory of the bullet that killed Mr. Compton was from somewhere behind him, farther away than where Captain Watson was according to the statement of the police that found him, but what I don't understand is why an ex-military man was meeting with a random stockbroker in the park in the dead of the night."

The detective had to give the DI credit; he was smarter than what people took him for. From his words, he knew Lestrade had a gut feeling something else was going on, but he just didn't have the capacity to answer his own questions. "My superiors are hounding me, telling me Watson's the killer, but it doesn't make sense. From the testimony of the officers at the scene, he was shot by someone in the woods. I need you to find out what you can about Watson. Look through these files and tell me where he would flee. There's something going on here, and I don't like it one bit."

Sherlock closed the folder and stood up. "What is the progression on the vigilante case?" he casually asked to a distracted Lestrade.

"Huh?" he said, as he snapped out of his thoughts, "Oh, God. I completely forgot." Lestrade rubbed his temples. There was too much on his plate at the moment. "Nothing. We haven't had word of any recent activity, although I think he's been doing this for longer than we thought. I went back and had some of my men weed through the older statements taken from the criminals we picked up and judging from their statements, I think he's been threatening some of the big fish in the underground world. They haven't come forward because, well-"

"-Because they'd be exposed." The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards a bit. He was definitely going to have a talk with the wounded soldier back in his flat. How had a short ball of rage scared experienced thugs into submission? Did he bargain for a lackie, for one less drug dealer out roaming the streets? The detective tucked the folder under his arm to free his hands, putting his gloves back on. "Well, then. I must be going, then," he told Lestrade who sat down in his chair and paid no attention to the leaving detective as he was much too busy religiously read through the reports his men had written based on the findings of the evidence at the scene. So far, they had matched the deceased with his identity, one Richard Compton, widowed. Occupation: stockbroker. No children nor siblings. Parents: deceased.

His top priority was getting answers for this murder. Lestrade had an inkling that perhaps Captain Watson and the vigilante were linked, but how, he hadn't the faintest clue. An honorably discharged, invalid veteran surely couldn't have the time nor the strength to take all these gigantic men down, did he? The police had scoured his apartment and found nothing pertaining to the captain except his laptop which contents destroyed themselves earlier in the day. Greg was having a really bad day. Why was everything happening so quickly? It felt as if the world of crime decided to purposely explode and crap all over the Inspector within the past twenty four hours to make his migraine was worsen with each passing minute. He sighed and leaned back on his chair. He needed a nap.

* * *

John fell for the second time as he attempted to hop around, but that was evidently an extremely futile task. Rubbing his elbow, he sat up on the floor, cursing his savior's height as the doctor had slipped on the pajama bottoms that were much too long. He tried rolling them up, but it was no use as they'd immediately fall back down. He also attempted to roll the top around the elastic band instead, but that cut off his circulation so he quickly unraveled it. The blond glanced around the room and yawned, still tired from the ridiculous series of events that occurred the night before. After sitting with his legs sprawled out like a child for several minutes, he gathered his strength and slowly hoisted himself back up, using the armchair he fell behind as support. Instead of hopping about, he began to limp over to Sherlock's room by turning the disadvantage of the trousers into an advantage. He used the cloth material to slide himself around which was a better option because all the hopping jolted his injuries and could have possibly ripped them open again.

As the mercenary reached the exposed bedroom, he became genuinely curious not only at the prospect of wondering if the detective had anything that resembled a cane he could use, but of what the man's room was like. Sherlock was a strange fellow so it was hard to imagine how he arranged his things, decorated them, or to see signs of his habits by looking at the state of the things he touched and used that were essentially figments of the echoes of the man's life. What sort of person was he that he risked his life to harbor a wanted fugitive? Or at least that's what John assumed he was labeled as. It wasn't clear that he was indeed considered an actual murderer at this point, but the police were out for his head and that was enough to go on.

He slid on over and sat himself on the undone bed, the duvet ruffled atop the pillows-one was in place and the other in the center. It seemed Sherlock was not one to make his bed which was funny because John always did. He did a once-over around the room and was surprised the room was relatively clean compared to the clutter outside, but there were clothes strewn over a chair and some laid abandoned on the floor. A couple books made their way onto the nightstand next to the bed as well as a few coins here and there. There were several empty cups and empty plates with crumbs on them around the room to convince John that even though the man seemed like a robot, he was definitely a human. _A bachelor, to be precise,_ he thought as he gazed at the semi-clean pigsty. Under a stack of newspaper, something thin and black caught the doctor's eye and he stood up to grab it, hoping that it might be some kind of cane or something sturdy that could substitute it, but much to his surprise, it was a riding crop, he determined as he pinched the width with his thumb and forefinger, pulling it out from underneath the papers. He gripped it and smacked the bed with it.

What an odd thing for Sherlock to have. Based on all of the man's possessions, it would have been virtually impossible to guess that he rode horses. And if it wasn't for horses...what was it for? John shifted his eyes and slowly put it back, not wanting to follow that line of thought. Awkwardly, he stood there next to the bed, trying to see if the man had anything as he didn't want to go digging through his stuff. After a few minutes, he gave up and decided to ask the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. In hindsight, he probably should have done that first. The blond doctor hobbled to the doorframe that led to the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called down.

"Yes, dear?" John heard a response.

"Do you have a cane?" he asked. Moments later, he heard Mrs. Hudson head towards the stairs and then immediately caught sight of her. In her hands, she gripped an archaic-looking cane in which the top of the stick curved downwards making the whole thing look like an inverted letter 'J', but he didn't mind. It would definitely do until he retrieved his own.

"Is this good for you, dear? It was my ex-husband's. He left it with the rest of his things," she said as she handed it over.

John took it from her and leaned on it, immediately feeling the pressure lifting from his leg. He visibly relaxed a little bit. "Yes, yes. This'll do quite fine, thank you," he told her.

She smiled at him. "Any time, dear," she said as she turned around and carefully headed back down the stairs with her left hand up in the air as her right glided along the wall to help her.

The doctor turned to walk around and realized it was a bit tall for him, but it would have to do. He limped over to the table and searched the floor to find where his abandoned pack laid. He found it behind the left arm of the couch and picked it up, strapping it on. He was about to walk down and out the flat when he realized he was still in pajamas and had no clothes to change into. It would be embarrassing to walk around the city not to mention the amount of cold, harsh wind he'd be forced to bear. Due to his injuries, his immune system was weak which meant he was that much more susceptible to germs and colds that would decommission him from beginning his new goal of clearing out his good name.

John moved to remove his pack and go looking for clothes Sherlock might have that could fit when he remembered his civilian clothes were stuffed inside. He mentally slapped himself for being such a dolt and began to change, preparing to venture out into the world which was out for his blood, literally as unbeknownst to him, someone had placed a healthy bounty on his head.

The doctor shivered against the wind that had picked up right as he set foot out on the streets. He had asked Mrs. Hudson for a hat (which she did have; he wondered why she hadn't thrown out any of her ex-husbands' things), and tucked his head down as his walked to enable the brim of the brown plaid pageboy hat to cover everyone's view of his face. He thumped along the concrete and slipped into a cab, ordering the driver who failed to recognize him to take him as far as the man could, right about until the edge of the inner city where he switched cabbies who barely gave him a second glance as they drove and continued his journey in this particular fashion until he reached his destination: the street where his flat was located.

John had brought his pack, having stuffed his scope and extra ammo into it. The throwing knives and his guns were hidden on his person; really, he shouldn't be venturing around the streets when images of his face kept flashing on the news, but he couldn't afford to just sit. He was sinking in quicksand and he needed to do something, quickly. He climbed up the fire escape of the empty building opposite his own flat and climbed onto the sill of an unlocked, dirty window. He was having a bit of trouble due to his throbbing leg, but he sucked it up and crawled in. The crumbling walls of the room he stood in had evidently been uninhabited for a while, or so he thought until he caught sight of a candle with a wick that looked it had been burned fairly recently resting on a ragged table in the center of the space. He shrugged it off, thinking it must be used as a get-away by some couple. There was a certain attraction to abandoned places that many people were drawn to, perhaps due to the context of shutting the world out and enjoying themselves if only for a moment or two.

The doctor opened his pack and took out his extremely expensive scope. He looked through on eye and looked around for any sign of a policeman. Just as expected, a car rolled around the corner every ten minutes or so. Whoever was driving it was clearly under orders to patrol the area in case of its fugitive inhabitant's return. He moved the equipment to face his windows and found that someone had opened his blinds. John was prepared to curse himself for looking into his flat as he knew he always left the blinds shut so the idea of checking it was futile, but serendipitously, they were drawn open and the doctor could see everything inside. There was yellow caution taped at his door, marking it with an 'x' and a few of his things were shuffled around, but no one was inside. He waited patiently, watching if anyone came out of his bathroom or his bedroom, but no one was there. It was completely devoid of any life which prompted the blond to decide to make a run for it. John needed to get his extra ammo and knives, hidden in a false bottom of a small chest filled with junk, and of course, his cane. He needed his cane.

After waiting for the police car to come and go, he quickly climbed back down the escape and ran across the street, checking to make sure no one was watching. Because of his leg, it was more of a hobble than a run across, but due to sheer will, he made it to his flat without tripping over his legs or his temporary cane. At this point, the sky was getting dark so he wasn't greatly worried about being seen, but learning from his sloppy mistakes, especially the one that put him in this situation in the first place, he deemed it was necessary to be cautious. He forgot his keys, so he picked the lock with tools he always carried around with him after retrieving them from his pack and walked up the stairs, sliding with his back up against the wall just in case there was someone posted inside that he had missed with the scope. To his delight, he was greeted with emptiness. John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and ducked as he walked across his living room. He couldn't walk freely just in case someone happened to be looking in. Catching sight of an unfamiliar silhouette in a flat that was supposed to be empty meant a phone call to the police and _that _meant escaping which he was in no condition to be doing.

The blonde abandoned the cane next to the door and made his way towards his bedroom after confirming that his own cane was indeed, leaning on the wall next to the telly. He opened the trunk that lay at the foot of his bed and pulled out a worn looking dark green box then proceeded to lift the lid and place it on the floor, spilling its contents out onto it. John turned the now-empty box upside down and forced the false bottom to fall. He retrieved his special-material clothes and stuffed them into his pack before replacing all the contents and heading over to his closet. He struggled to grab the jacket he was fond of (black with leather padding on the elbows) due to the awkward angle he was trying to pull it down from while sitting on the floor and finally forced it off the hanger and put it on before pushing all the boxes and junk on the ground of the closet aside. A small portion of the corner of the carpet was able to be lifted. He grabbed it and pulled it back to reveal floorboards. The blond loosened one and coaxed it out of his place, displaying the extra ammo and knives that would surely incriminate him if found. Plus, the knives in his pockets could use a break; he needed to sharpen them. The doctor finally replaced the floorboard, carpet, and his useless things after ridding the hiding spot of its contents. He strapped his pack back on and was about to leave his room when he heard his front door open and close. Footsteps began thudding up the stairs and the direction of the tapping rhythm that came nearer and nearer with each second froze him in place. His heart started beating erratically against his chest; he couldn't move.

Someone was in his flat.

* * *

**A/N:**

Oh God. I'm so sorry this is late. I had the most massive writer's block ever.

Happy late birthday to Andrew Scott whose birthday was on the 21st! And to me! I share the same birthday. haha  
(Interesting fact: I have the same birthday as the man who plays Moriarty and I have the same personality as the Moriarty in the books. Um...LOL)  
I didn't cover nearly as much as I would have in this chapter, but it was getting long so I cut it short.

**You guys make my day every time I upload something. Thank you all so much for reading and commenting. Or just reading. Or you know, just taking a glance at it. Or just deciding to open it. LOL**


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 13**

**Suspect**

* * *

The floorboards creaked ever so slightly as the intruder stepped closer. John, still frozen in his position on the floor, frantically looked around the room. Should he hide? Should he attempt a confrontation? He shook his head at his hesitation. He was a soldier and he needed to act like one. The doctor reached behind him and grabbed one of his guns that was tucked between his lower back and the top edge of his trousers. He pulled it out, cocking the gun as quietly as he could, and stood up slowly, wobbling and almost tipping over in the process. He calmed his breathing which proved to be quite a difficult task. Carbon dioxide pumped out of his nostrils as adrenaline coursed throughout his body, reminding him of the days he spent in a land far away and of memories he had forgotten. His heart was thumping against his chest and it felt as if it were about to burst open. John gripped his gun with both hands and set his back against the wall and slid across as he drew nearer towards the door frame, just as he had when he was downstairs.

He could hear the footsteps draw nearer and from the sound of carefully placed shoes, whoever was inside the flat was walking around cautiously. His intruder was clearly aware that John was there and it was only a matter of time before they became face to face. Perhaps the other person had caught sight of his cane; perhaps John made more noise than he thought. Whatever the reason was, there was no way to run. He braced himself, prepared to kill if he had to.

The veteran, making sure his pack was secure and in place, peered around the edge of the doorframe. He cringed as the strap rubbed against the sore, wounded area around his ribs. Seeing that the hallway was clear, he made his way towards the living room, carefully crossing one ankle over the other as he kept his back towards the wall. The flat was dark, enabling the eerie shadows cast from the luminosity leaking in from the outside world through the windows to slink around the walls and floors. John continued in this manner until he reached the frame that opened up to the living room, not noticing that the other person's footsteps had grown silent. With one spin he would make himself known, but he needed a moment to collect himself. The blond swallowed thickly, trying not to make an audible sound. He took a few quick, deep breaths and spun, gritting his teeth and holding his gun out in front of his body and pointed the tip upwards towards the taller intruder's face. "Freeze!" he cried. At that same moment, the thief, or whomever it was, thrust his own weapon down at John. The two stood face to face, guns pointed in such a manner, a slight tremble of a finger could blast a bullet through the other's skull, taking the living breath up and away from this world. It took a moment for the other to realize exactly whom they were staring at.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John breathed, raising his eyebrows in surprise, his gun still poised.

"John," Sherlock acknowledged, clearly not surprised, with his own mirroring the fugitive's.

At the same time they lowered their weapons, eyeing each other. The consulting detective uncocked his weapon and tucked the firearm back inside his coat pocket. John held onto his, letting it hang limply from his hand at his side but resting his finger on the side just outside the trigger area. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked the lithe man.

Sherlock turned around and walked over to John's modest couch, tugging off his gloves in the process. "I should ask the same of you," he aloofly answered as he flopped down, taking a seat. John didn't move. He scoffed in disbelief as he opened his mouth and slightly moved his jaw to the left. He blinked.

"Well, this is my flat."

Sherlock stretched his long legs out in front of him and then lifted them one by one onto the couch, sitting hunched over with his hands resting on his knees. "And this is my crime scene," he retorted without missing a beat. "I would have thought that an experienced military man moonlighting as a mercenary would think twice before entering a room full of evidence that would incriminate him."

The blond looked around. "What evidence? I don't see anything."

The detective continued to stare at the wall in front of him as John looked pointedly at the dark curls on the back of the man's head. "That's the problem, John. You _see_ but you do not _observe_," he said. "There's a knife puncture in the wall. The force of impact necessary to conduct the amount of damage done in a clean manner thrust into the dried plaster dictates that the thrower threw it from a far distance, meaning someone with skill and precision," he explained as he pointed towards the area without looking. "The cane resting over there by the television doubles as a type of sword. The ring around the top is strategically placed to disguise the thin edges of where the two parts pull away. Crumbled documents on the floor, research on various known drug dealers and felons," he continued, pointed at each area without moving his head, "Gloves under the coffee table. Military grade. Shall I go on? Tell me, John, what would an ex-military man working as a humble doctor need these things for? It's all evidence, John, evidence."

John gaped at him, sputtering. He was a bit at a loss for words. "That's-that's fantastic!" At this exclamation, Sherlock turned his head to take a look at John, his upturned collar slightly obscuring a part of his face. A slightly surprised look replaced his usual stoic face. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to be sarcasm, but from the blond's apparent impressed visage, the reaction was genuine. Sherlock didn't quite know how to take this. This reaction was foreign. No one had ever called his deductions _fantastic_; they usually told him to piss off.

"Sherlock Holmes...I remember where I saw you now. You're always on the newspapers and on the telly, aren't you? I usually skip reading the headlines, but I've caught a glance or two," John said, even more thoroughly impressed as he recalled just how many newspapers he'd gone through with the man's face on the cover.

"Ah. That. Irrelevant," Sherlock replied as he returned his face back to normal, albeit his innerself still a bit in shock, and shifted so that his shoulders were square and his back was facing John. He would never admit it, but the felon's praise fed his ego a bit and made him feel, well, actually clever for once. "Although I must say, John, you are absolutely dreadful at covering your tracks."

The Doctor scratched his head. "Well, no one's been as clever as you so there was really no point." John limped his way across the room and grabbed his cane, the one that doubled as a sword, a gift from a deceased soldier in his platoon who had died in Afghanistan.

"So many weapons for a man who does not kill."

John looked up at Sherlock whose eyes shifted to watch what he was doing. "Well, the business I'm in, there's always danger lurking around the corner."

"Ah. Paranoia. Typical."

"No, not paranoia. Precaution. I have taken lives, you know. I was in the military."

"You were a doctor," Sherlock retorted, almost in disbelief.  
"I had bad days too."

John looked around the flat, his gun now tucked away, making sure he had all that he needed. Ah. He forgot to grab some clothes. He couldn't continue to borrow the slender man's attire. He had found they were rather ill-fitting and not very comfortable. The doctor hobbled back to his room and left Sherlock behind who, at that moment, stood up and began to rummage through John's things. The detective pulled open a drawer from a desk that was out of the way by the wall and caught sight of a couple medals of honor, stashed away, untouched.

"Sherlock, can you carry this for me? I would, but my leg's a bit sore," John called out as he thumped back towards the detective who quickly shut the drawer. Without a word, he took the small, brown, worn suitcase and headed towards the door but stopped when he realized the blond wasn't following him. Sherlock turned around to ask him what the holdup was when John stood in the center, a puzzled expression taking over his face. His lips were pursed. "Why...are you here again?" He wasn't sure if the detective had told him, but he wasn't one hundred percent trustworthy in his eyes. They had met under strange circumstances. John was a doctor and a felon in the eyes of the law. Sherlock was a consulting detective to Scotland Yard. Two halves that didn't quite make a whole.

"I'm not turning you in, if that's where you're getting at. Logically speaking there's no reason for you to go to prison for your petty crimes-not yet. There's something else at large and I intend to find out."

"And you're just stringing me along for the ride?" John asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I'd suggest you hurry, I'm afraid we have a stop to make before heading back to the flat," he said, avoiding the question.

An hour later, John found himself sitting in a taxi parked on the curb, idling in front of the Palace of Westminster. He couldn't help but to stare in awe at the massive building. He drank in the details of the architectural structure from the ornate decor to the towering flying buttresses that lorded over the people. John had never been so up close because there was never a reason to visit where the House of Commons convened. In the dark of night, however, the spikes that protruded from the palace seemed very ominous and threatening, an image of power indeed. His companion made his way outside. "Stay in the cab," Sherlock ordered to the top of John's head who was about to climb out with him to stretch his legs as the detective opened the door. Before he could ask why they were there, Sherlock shut the door in his face after exiting the vehicle.

"Wha-?" John said as he watched the man leave and shut the door on him. "Sherlock! What are you-Sherlock!" he hissed as he opened the door again, trying to call the man back. He hoped his hat was doing a good job so that the driver wouldn't recognize him, but he didn't want to be left alone just in case the man did. "Okay, then. I'll just sit here. In the cab..." he muttered, shutting it to keep the wind out. He began drumming his fingers on his knees. Several long minutes went by and the driver fell asleep as the heater coaxed him into a light slumber. There was a subtle tapping noise on the window heard above the cabbie's light snoring. The blond looked up to see a disinterested female standing in front of the door, tapping away at a cell phone, manicured fingers expertly clicking each button even as she darted her eyes upwards to look into John's. He raised his brow at her. She looked very polished and elegant, but had an air of business about her. Her dark brown hair curled around her neck down to her shoulders, sleek and shiny due to the reflection of the light from the lamp posts behind her. It was dark and he could barely make out her face but he could tell she was giving him an annoyed look.

"Can I help you?" he asked her as he rolled down the window.

"Out. Now," she ordered. John gave her a look of suspicion, but did so anyway.

"Um, who are you?"

She turned around, still typing on her cellphone before pressing a single button and hold it out towards him. John took it and hesitantly held it up to his ear.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Dr. Watson," the voice said.

"How..who is this? How do you know my name?" John quickly replied.

"Who I am is not important, but I know many things about you. For instance, I know you're standing outside the Palace of Westminster."

John looked up, still clutching the phone to his ear. "How do you know that?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a faint movement as a blinking red dot moved its position back and forth.

"Do you see that?" the voice asked. "That's a camera. I can control them all. I can follow you wherever you go. I can find you wherever you try to hide. I would advise you to follow the woman into the car to your right, lest something...bad...happens." John turned his head to his right and caught a glimpse of a black vehicle parked on the other side of the street, just outside the lit area of another lamp post.

"And what if I don't?" he challenged.

"Now, you could refuse, but you'd only be causing yourself much trouble by putting the spotlight on you. We wouldn't want that would we, what, with your current situation eluding the law? Get in the car." The voice hung up the phone. John handed the cellular device back to the woman. Without a choice, he complied and stepped out into the biting wind.

"This way," she said as she led him across the empty street. They got in the vehicle which immediately drove away as soon as the doors were shut. He had no choice but to play along as he really couldn't afford to get caught by Scotland Yard. They sat in silence for quite awhile as any attempt on John's part to make conversation was rebuffed by the beautiful brunette. She smirked at his attempts to grasp her attention, and quickly ignored all subsequent questions. The vehicle rolled to a stop and John was let out. He looked around his surroundings and found that he was in some sort of underground parking lot.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," the voice from the phone rang out from across the area. The veteran limped his way towards the man, gaining a better view of the stranger with each step. A taller man than himself stood clad in an expensive suit leaning his weight on a black umbrella. His mouth looked as if it were stuck in a permanent scowl and his eyes took the doctor in, lingering on his cane. The nostrils on his sharp nose flared a bit. John thought for a split-second that he saw recognition flicker in the man's eye, as if he knew exactly what injury John was concealing, but dismissed the thought. "I trust your journey was comfortable? Your leg must be hurting. Please, sit," the gentleman welcomed him.

"No, I prefer to stand. What do you want from me?"

"Ah, straight to the point. Very well. What is your relation with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

John straightened himself up, much like how a threatened animal attempted to make its being bigger than it was in the presence of predators. But as soon as he did, he inwardly winced as the act of puffing out his chest which caused a small shoot of pain to reverberate through his injured side. "I don't have one," he managed to get out calmly.

"In that case, I'd like to offer you a small sum in exchange for...information. Small details."

"Look, I'm not interested, so you can keep your money. I just met the man yesterday," the blond replied.

"Loyal rather quickly, aren't we? As would be expected of a soldier," the gentleman said bemusedly. John grit his teeth in return. "I'm rather...concerned about him."

"How did you know I was a soldier? Who are you?"

The man lifted his umbrella and began examining it with great disinterest. "An enemy, he might say, but it's not of great importance. What is your...purpose with him?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Nothing." He gripped his cane tighter, ready to take out his weapon if need be.

"Hm. Yes. Well, I advise you to stay away from him. He'll do you no good."

The doctor wondered at these words. Could it be that Sherlock had an ulterior motive? Was this the man to trust? Comparing the two, Sherlock seemed more trustworthy (not that John actually _did_ trust him...it's just that between a man who brings you to shelter versus a man who virtually kidnaps you, there was no competition). "It's none of your business anyway," he retorted.

The gentleman scoffed. "No need to get snippy."

"Are we done?"

The man placed his umbrella back onto the hard concrete. "You tell me."

And to that, the blond turned around and headed towards the car.

"Remember what I said," the figure called to his retreating back. The man's phone rang and he answered it, but by the time he did, John was out of earshot and back in the car, leaving the strange suited man behind.

xxx

The Doctor hesitated outside the dark door, huddled beneath a small lamp above the doorframe with his arm raised and ready to knock. He wasn't quite sure whether he should assume he was staying at Sherlock's flat or not, but really, he had nowhere to go. He didn't know where Mary lived, nonetheless if she'd believe him if he said he was innocent. By now, the world must be thinking he was a murderer. John made up his mind and firmly knocked three times. Honestly, it was stupid to stay in the heart of London, but on the other side, what better way to disguise himself than in plain sight? He waited, breathing out a puff of air into the cold, night sky. No one came to the door. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock was out at the moment? He turned the doorknob which rotated all the way, indicating that it was unlocked.

John pulled the door open and walked in, wiping his feet on the mat before doing so. He shut it and made his way up the steps of the stairs which slightly creaked and groaned under his weight. As he reached the upper level, he saw that a fire was lit in the living room. His suitcase was sitting next to the armchair Sherlock had sat in while he watched John stitch up his wounds. In that case, the detective was definitely home-just nowhere in sight.

Speaking of the detective, Sherlock lumbered in, his bare feet padding across the floor. Without his scarf and coat, John noticed just how skinny the man was. The detective rolled up his shirt sleeves and leaned down somewhere below the desk that was situated near the back wall and pulled up a violin and a bow.

"I'm closed to cases right now," he said, looking down. Not hearing the client leave, he raised his head. "Ah, John. I thought you might have had made a run for it," he said nonchalantly and he ran his fingers and eyes across the hairs on his bow.

The Doctor, still standing within the door frame, cane in hand, was a little distracted by the events that had just aspired. "I met an enemy of yours, apparently."

At this, Sherlock shifted his eyes towards his companion. "Oh really?"

"Yeah. Strange man. He offered me money to spy on you."

A look of realization flickered across Sherlock's face, eerily similar to the man with the umbrella. "Did you take it?"

John shook his head. "No."

The curly-haired man turned his attention back onto his violin. "Pity. We could have split it."

"What?"

Before the detective could answer, flashing red and blue lights made their way into the room through the windows from outside. They heard voices and keys jingling. Mrs. Hudson opened the front door and walked in. "Sherlock, Detective Lestrade is here!" she called up over the rustle of grocery bags. John's eyes widened in panic. Sherlock set his violin and bow down.

"Follow me," he ordered, walking past the mercenary and up another flight of stairs. John quickly followed, his pace quickening as they heard a few voices floating up from the entrance.

"Thank you for helping me with these, dears. You can wait in Sherlock's flat. I'll make you some tea," he heard the landlady say.

The consulting detective reached a door and opened it. "Hide in here. I'll retrieve you when they're gone." John nodded, but couldn't help keeping the door a sliver of an inch open so he could hear what was going on.

Sherlock walked back downstairs. "Lestrade. Donovan. What brings you here at this hour? Another murder case?" John could hear the muffled voices.

The consulting detective gestured for Lestrade to sit, which he did.

"Freak," Donovan nodded in greeting. The dark-skinned sergeant chose to stand behind Lestrade, arms crossed over her chest as she turned her head to take a look around.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I'll get right to the point. I need your help, Sherlock."

The younger Holmes took a seat. "Why else would you be here."

The Detective Inspector gave him a look of annoyance. "I don't know, a drugs bust? Anyway, that murder case you went to, the warehouse with the unidentified man? Yeah, well, Anderson and his team scoped the place one more time. This time, they found DNA evidence tying that Captain Watson to the scene. I need you to find him, now. Highest priority. I've already alerted the police to be on the lookout and notified all the stations to air his picture with information. He's definitely a homicide suspect now."

One floor above, the blood drained from John's face. He was certainly never in that warehouse and he _certainly_ hadn't killed anyone since his days in the military (patients who died on him in the hospital didn't count).

If he didn't know better, the mercenary was beginning to think he was being set up.

* * *

**A/N:**

I actually finished this pretty early and already got started on the next ch.  
I'm also working on a ch for Parallel.  
If I wanted to respond to reviews...would I PM people or write on the review thing? Haha I'm a total noob. I've been reading & lurking for years but I never actually wrote anything, hence my dumb self.

**Merci beaucoup pour la lecture, tout le monde!**


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
****Chapter 14**

**Madmen**

* * *

Moran whistled a nameless tune as he polished his blades with a cloth. He had lost a couple in the woods and another one to that blasted mercenary, but all was well. He managed to get a bullet in the bugger's leg before he scampered away. The sky was dark and his spirits were high; his boss had called him, wanting Moran to personally report to him and give him an update of everything that had happened in the duration of his absence. Unfortunately, that included Miss Adler's forays as well. He sighed. Sometimes being the right hand man had its perks, but sometimes, it had its downfalls and dealing with Irene was one of them. The woman grated on his nerves. He stopped rubbing the blade and admired his work as it glinted in the moonlight streaming through the window blinds. He set the cloth down and was about to pick up another knife when his phone rang, an unlisted number lighting up the screen.

"Seb, why don't you ever answer your phone?" an irate voice greeted him. The sniper rolled his eyes. He had it on silent up until thirty minutes ago, that's why. "What do you want?"

"The boss wants me to come with you to see him tomorrow. Again," his partner answered. At this, the sniper stood up, indignant, not caring when the knives he so carefully attended to clattered onto the floor. Tomorrow was his time alone with the boss and his time only. Who was she to barge her low status in on his meeting that his superior had personally asked him to attend?

"What? Why?"

"I dunno. Something about a special assignment or something," she answered. He could sense her shrugging over the phone. "Anyway, 7 sharp. Oh, and by the by, was _that_ completed successfully?"

"Yeah," he grumbled. "How about your end?"

"Done and done. Alright, Seb, I have to go. Duty calls. I think we have time to complete two hits tomorrow before 7, don't you think?" his partner passively ordered as she hung up.

Sebastian stood at the edge of his bed in the dark as a headache threatened to take over his senses. He wasn't quite sure if the sudden migraine was due to the polishing chemical he was using or if was spurred on by his partner and all women in general, but regardless of the cause, he decided he needed sleep. His sniper tendencies took over his body, forcing him to stay awake and alert for long periods at a time. He had taken out a diplomat in France a few hours ago and he hadn't slept in 48 hours. The one-eyed sniper yawned and began preparing himself for bed.

John waited until he was sure the detective and his subordinate left the flat. They had stayed for a cup of tea while the blond huddled by the door, his stomach rumbling, constantly reminding him that he didn't eat anything that day. He rubbed his leg and stood up when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

"John," Sherlock called.

The doctor cautiously opened the door.

"From the look on your face, I assume you heard everything that transpired."

"It wasn't me, I swear," John told him as they walked down back into Sherlock's flat. "I don't even know what they're talking about."

The detective went straight to the desk and resumed holding his violin and bow. He turned around and stood in front of the fireplace. He raised the bow and played a single, long note. "Well then, the only logical conclusion would be that you have been framed, but what for? What have you done, Watson?"

John set the cane he had borrowed from Mrs. Hudson down by the door and then poured himself a cup of tea and grabbed a few biscuits as he passed the coffee table before sitting down on an armchair. What had he done? A lot of things, that was for sure. He took a sip of tea and exhaled. It was time to get back into fighting shape. He needed to make a visit down to the black market he frequented.

John listened to Sherlock play an unknown sonata that was rather quite soothing, but he couldn't keep his mind off of his situation. In a period of 24 hours, his life was shot to hell.

"I...don't have anywhere to stay."

Sherlock continued to play his music with his eyes closed.

John realized he still had his pack on, so he unclipped it and set it down. The effects he had here in this flat was the only possessions he had now. A cane, a luggage case, a pack stuffed with weapons, and a broken cell phone. That was what his life came to.

The detective slowly rotated, still playing the melody. "Don't you have a sibling to call?"

John snapped his head up. "What?" He forgot. He forgot about Harry! "Oh, God. Wait, how did you know?" he asked. At this point, he should know better than to wonder, but his companion obliged. He stopped playing and used his bow as a pointer and jabbed the air towards the broken cellphone on the coffee table. At the blond's questioning face, he verbally explained.

"The cellphone is a bit of an older model, presumably one that was out when you came back from Afghanistan, given to you by an older sibling, a brother judging on the inscription on the back."

The doctor took a glance and saw that the back of the phone was upright, glinting in the firelight.

"The use of an old phone suggests it was not you who chose or bought it as everything else you own is cutting edge, as your second 'occupation' necessitates your equipment to be. Your brother is recently divorced or recently single, as percieved by the notion of giving you a gift he was given by a female named 'Clara'. If they were married but separated, he wouldn't have gotten rid of effects that reminded him of her because separation means a break, a chance that they might continue to see each other. This was brought on by a drinking problem, clearly due to your brother, Harry, as evident by the scratches around the charging inlet which is usually caused by one's affected motor skills by inebriation. Clara wouldn't charge his phone, no, it was his phone, his drinking problems. Perhaps a night too many of indulgence forced Clara to turn away. He obviously cares for you, however, given that instead of effectively ridding himself of the phone entirely, he gave it to you, most likely to keep in touch. You're in London, alone, seeing as how your morality dictates that you'd refuse to intentionally put your loved ones in danger as well as your decision to moonlight as a mercenary illuminates the psychological issues you channel into a double identity because no one understands you because you've changed. You're trapped and going back into war is the only way you can feel like yourself. Am I wrong?"

John almost spilled his cup of tea. He stared at the detective, slack-jawed in awe. "That's..bloody fantastic! Except for one thing."

Sherlock tilted his head and furrowed his brows. "Which part?"

"Harry's my older sister."

The detective raised his eyebrows. "Ah. Well, one can't always one hundred percent accurate."

John put his cup down. "But that was bloody well the closest thing. Fantastic," he said to a smug Sherlock. The lanky man continued where he left off playing, the strings of the bow gliding across the instrument as he hid a small smile from his companion. It was that moment when they heard Mrs. Hudson come upstairs.

"Sherlock, I need to ask...oh," she stopped when she caught sight of the blond doctor. "John, dear, you've come back. Will you boys be needing one bedroom or two tonight? There's another one upstairs if you'll be needing it," she said. John coiled back slightly at her comment.

"Of course, we'll be needing it," he said in Sherlock's stead who ignored her completely. "Actually, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, if you don't mind, would it be alright if I stayed here for the time being? I can pay rent, of course, but please, don't let anyone know I'm here," John asked. Mrs. Hudson said it was alright, not very curious as to why the man wished to be so discreet (perhaps it was a personal matter, she thought as she darted her eyes between the two men), so they turned to the detective who continued playing, giving a curt nod as he moved his bow up and down to the notes of the unknown melody.

"Well then, welcome to the flat, dear. I'll go fetch a fresh change of sheets."

"Wait, Mrs. Hudson," John said as he stood up, almost toppling over. The kind woman immediately came rushing to his side as his companion continued to ignore the two. She helped to steady him.

"The cane I borrowed, it's by the door," he concluded lamely. He had forgotten the injury on his leg and was about to walk over to hand it to her, but realized he couldn't when a stabbing pain shot through his thigh.

"You rest, now, dear," she said as she left the living room.

xxx

It had been a couple weeks since the night John had gotten his injuries and so he decided it was time for the stitches to come out. He had sent an email to his sister using Sherlock's laptop, telling her not to worry and he didn't do anything wrong, and had been diligently practicing walking around he flat, trying to bear weight down on his leg. The two had been getting along well, except for the occasional squabble mostly due to John's cabin fever. It also didn't help that Sherlock began refusing cases clients came with, figuring them out on the spot or refusing to take on such menial problems. Most of the two weeks were spent at each others' throats, but occasionally, Sherlock would leave for hours at a time and not return until late into the night, muttering something about St. Bart's.

On about the fifth lap around the room, Sherlock, clad in his pajamas, insisted for him to stop. "John, will you resist pacing around in incessant circles?! You're giving me a headache," he spat while rubbing his temples. He flopped onto his side on the couch where John usually slept at night and turned his back towards his flatmate. Since John wasn't sleeping there at the moment, Sherlock lounged on the exact spot he did every time he laid there which the doctor suspected was something of an obsessive compulsive habit as he always sought out that particular spot when thinking about a particularly taxing case or problem. Now that another person occupied the couch, Sherlock had no choice but to find another place to think. John would have slept in the room upstairs, but it was difficult to walk up and down the stairs, so he just made himself comfortable downstairs until he was able to get around without hobbling.

The doctor stopped his pacing. "Well, excuse me, but I can't go outside because you won't let me!" John retaliated.

"There's a sniper after your head!" He had figured whoever shot at the shorter man was particularly skilled in that area of expertise.

"I'm a trained soldier! I think I can handle myself."

"Fat lot of good that training did. If you were more careful you wouldn't be in this position in the first place. Think, John, think," Sherlock said as he threw one of his hands in the air. His back was still turned.

The soldier grit his teeth. The detective was a prick, that much was for sure, but his genuine concern (or whatever it was), made him remember that the detective _had_ carried him to safety. Twice. Once in the forest and again when that silver-haired Inspector Detective came for a visit. The room he had hidden in was supposed to be his. He paid Mrs. Hudson the appropriate rent, setting up an automatic payment plan from his numerous scattered off-shore bank accounts.

The man sighed and flopped down onto an armchair. He was getting better, but it still pained him to walk or excessively move his torso. The wound on his ribs would definitely heal slower than the one on his leg. John hobbled to Sherlock's room and grabbed a pair of scissors and proceeded to the kitchen where he found a bottle of rubbing alcohol and chose to stay there instead of venturing towards the living room to take out his stitches. It was more polite. After he was done, he pulled up the hem of his jumper to take a good look. His wounds were itchy, that much was for sure, but it was a good sign as it indicated that they were certainly healing. It was right then he decided it was time to visit the underground market. He knew Sherlock was going to Scotland Yard to speak with the man named Lestrade; he had spent the previous two weeks creating trails and dead ends for the police to give off the illusion that John was alive and well, moving around to avoid capture.

The doctor couldn't help but to thank God this occupation was the one his companion chose to do; who knew what the world of crime would be like if Sherlock became a professional..crime consultant? That was what he would have called it, John thought, as he recalled a conversation they had when random clients first started showing up at their door.

"Sherlock, another one!" Mrs. Hudson called up as she directed the people up towards their living room. John sat on the armchair, sunglasses on (a pair he had ordered online after the loss of his own in the forest), as well as the hat. His cane rested by his hand. The detective, on the other hand, was standing up, arms folded behind his back, hands clasped.

He patiently listened (or as patiently as he could) to the fourth client that day before interrupting their explanation with, "Dull. It was the groundskeeper. Check the shed," before turning away, walking into his bedroom.

"Um...sorry," he told the shocked couple before him. "Check your shed and come back, I suppose," John said awkwardly, unsure if what he was supposed to do. He waited until the people left before slowly making his way down towards his flatmate's room. After knocking, he heard no sound.

"Sherlock?" he called as he opened the door. By now, he had gotten a good grasp of what the man was like, so it was no surprise when he found the man sprawled face-down across his mattress. He muttered something unintelligible. "Sorry, what?" John asked as he came closer. The detective turned his head to face the blond.

"Dull. Dull. Go bring me an interesting case, John."

"Well, that was rude to the clients. I don't care if it's dull. Stop acting like..like a prick."

Sherlock glared at him. "Idiots, the lot of them. Find me a case."

As much as Sherlock's attitude bothered John, he was more curious on what the hell was going on that day. "Why are random strangers coming to our door, anyway?" he asked.

John's flatmate's hair tousled as he flipped around on his back, his arms spread out. Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "Consulting detective."

"What?"

The man flashed him a look of annoyance. "Consulting detective. People need help, they come to me, including Scotland Yard. When the police are in a jam (which is most of the time), and don't know what to do, they ask for help. Consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented it," he explained, closing his eyes.

John, whose hand was still on the doorknob, used his other hand to scratch his head. "Well, whatever you are, it's no excuse to be acting like such a child."

"Fetch me tea."

The doctor turned around to leave. "I'm not your housekeeper," he said, mimicking words he heard Mrs. Hudson utter almost every day. Just before he was about to leave, the dark-haired man shot up and scrambled to the other side of the room and rummaged through multiple books before he found a piece of scrap paper. He scribbled on it and headed towards John.

"Tape this on the door."

John took a look at it and read, "_If a crime is in progress, do disturb. If not, go away."_

Returning back to the present, the doctor picked up Sherlock's laptop from the floor beside him to borrow it and opened up his new email account. There were countless letters from Mary, but he didn't know if he should answer them and put her at risk. Of course Harry bombarded him with questions, but he told her not to contact him anymore and changed his address. All the emails from his old one were forwarded to his new one, but to the senders, it seemed as if his address was merely deleted.

Mary.

He closed his eyes as he thought of her wavy golden hair, the smell of peaches, her soft skin. Her soft lips.

He groaned and sighed. It had been a while since he'd been with a woman, and he was sure he never felt anything like he felt for her. If only his other life hadn't gotten in the way, perhaps he would've had a future with her. Mary Morstan. He missed her terribly and they had only been on one actual date.

But then if he didn't do his mercenary work...he was sure he would have gone mad.

"Mycroft's coming," Sherlock said as he read a text from his brother.

John looked at his friend. "Why?"

The front door opened and the older Holmes made his way upstairs.

"Well, aren't you two in domestic bliss," he said the moment he caught sight of the two lounging about. The doctor noticed that he still carried his blasted umbrella (why, John didn't know; it wasn't even rainy).

Sherlock made no notion to get up and greet his sibling.

Mycroft sat down on the armchair across from John's left and stared at his little brother. "Really, Sherlock. This is how you greet your older brother?" he tutted. "You're not a child anymore."

"Neither are you," John muttered, "yet you still insist on mothering him." At this comment, Sherlock's ears perked in interest.

Mycroft turned to look at the veteran. "Ah, John. Sticking up for him already? Might I expect a happy announcement towards the end of the week? Or has it happened already without my knowledge?"

John gave him a look of annoyance and his face deadpanned.

Sherlock abruptly sat up. "Nothing happens without your knowledge." He turned to John. "He's the British government."

Mycroft lifted his right hand and stared at his fingernails, picking at them. "Don't be silly, little brother. I occupy a...minor position in the British government," he retorted, a statement that only earned an eyeroll from Sherlock.

"What do you want?" the younger Holmes asked.

Mycroft put his hand down. "Just checking in."

"No, there has to be a reason. You wouldn't just check in. You're a man with purpose, so obviously, you've come to speak about something important. Seeing as you texted Sherlock instead of calling which you usually do, and of which you've done only once since I've been here means that you probably did it so that he'd tell me...which means you probably have business with me...right?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and turned to his brother. "He's learning." The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards.

"Mm, John, yes. I need...a favor."

At this, both men turned their full attention to the older Holmes. "I've run into a bit of-let's call it a small matter of international security, yes?"John tilted his head. Mycroft continued, "It has come to my attention that our country has a few, outliers, for the lack of a better term, that must be dealt with. I need you to assist in detaining certain individuals. Outside of the government's official knowledge, of course."

Sherlock scoffed. "You _are _the government," he said, which his brother ignored.

"I am prepared to pay your price."

John was about to accept (as he was itching to get back out there) before something clicked in his mind at his words. "Wait a minute. Have I done this for you before?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked innocently.

"You hired _John_?" Sherlock asked incredulously. He wouldn't put it past his brother; he probably did.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the older Holmes responded coolly as he stood up. "Well, I must be going. I'll keep in touch. Think it over."

Knowing Mycroft, he probably already knew his new email address, John thought. The two men watched as Sherlock's brother descended the steps and out the door. The blond turned to the detective after glancing out the window and realizing how dark it was outside. "Don't you have to go see what's-his-name, Lestrade?"

Sherlock laid back down. "Aren't you going out?"

John halted in his action of picking up his tea cup. "How'd you know? Stop that," he ordered as if Sherlock's deducting was some sort of novelty magic trick he could stop doing at any moment. Unfortunately, he knew fully well that Sherlock's "gift" was also a curse. It was something he couldn't help at all.

"I'm not stopping you, if that's what you're concerned about."

John stood up to fetch a change of clothes. "It wouldn't matter anyway," he said as he began changing into his nice under armor in Sherlock's room. For good measure, he grabbed his thin kevlar vest, just in case. The black market was, after all, an extremely dangerous place to be. After he suited up in his usual nightly attire, he walked back out to the living room. After a couple weeks being holed up in the flat, his things had found their way mixed into Sherlock's various possessions as if they'd always been there. The doctor groaned as he was trouble finding his Walther PPK.

He stared around at the floor then sifted through the contents on the messy desk. "Have you seen my gun? Either of them? Or my daggers?" he asked his flatmate.

Sherlock, trying to sleep, muttered something about an experiment with the guns, but pointed at the mantle on the fireplace. He had used them to stab a pile of letters. John shot him a glare (unknownst to the detective) and pulled them out, shoving them in their respective places on specific areas of his hidden holsters. The mercenary still couldn't find his guns, so he grabbed Sherlock's after checking there was ammunition. Since his special night-vision sunglasses were thrown away in the forest, the mercenary needed something to help hide his face, so he grabbed some ash from the fireplace and smeared it on his face from his right temple, to his eyelid, the bridge of his nose, to his left eyelid, all the way across to his left temple. It created a crude, but working mask that helped a little bit. It would also help him hide better in the dark, but his hooded cape was good enough for that. He put it on and laced up his boots and stole away into the night, leaving behind a slumbering Sherlock.

"How much for that?" John asked as he pointed to a pistol that caught his eye after he roamed over to the weapons table from the gadgets where he purchased a new pair of night-vision sungalsses.

"Ah, the Sig Sauer P226R. Excellen' choice," the sleezy vendor wheezed as he picked it up and handed it to John. The doctor recognized it as the pistol he used when he was in Afghanistan. It was no ordinary gun; it was a military issued L106A1 which was impossible to get when not in the service. "Nine milimeters. Sleek. Semi-automatic .22 and works like a beaut."

"I know. How much?" He really wanted it. John had one when he was in the army and it felt right at home in his hands. As much as he loved his Walther PPK and his glock, the Sig Sauer reminded him of better times, albeit some of the worst ones as well. Those memories, good or bad, were apart of him, and he felt a bit nostalgic for the old days. Minus all the terror. Holding it in his hand, he felt adrenaline surge through his body due to a subconscious response.

The greasy-haired man pursed his lips. "Since it's a rare gun, I'd say...₤5,000."

John gaped at him. "Are you mad?"

"Hey, I've gotta make a livin'. Take it or leave it." All the vendors at the underground black market had unreasonable prices, but none as unreasonable as this. "It's a military-issued gun. D'you know what I had to do to get this?"

John snorted. "You didn't do a thing. Someone sold it to you."

"Well," he stammered, "the seller pried it from an ex-soldier's dead, cold, hands, I'll tell you that much."

"Yeah, whatever. I'll pay ₤3,000. Final offer," John haggled, disbelieving a word out of the man's mouth, but it was a rare opportunity to stumble across this particular model for sale.

"Fine. Deal."

John logged into his bank account on the man's computer and transferred the money which showed up automatically on the vendor's own offshore account. "Here you go," the ,am said, handing the weapon over. The veteran really didn't care that it cost ₤3,000 as it was more like chump change to him, but regardless, he didn't want to waste it all. However, he thought this gun was worth the price. The mercenary received the pistol along with a complimentary set of cartridges to put in the magazine and loaded it. The men in the underground black market weren't too concerned about being murdered down there because there were 'security' men that wouldn't hesitate to put bullet through their heads at a second's notice. Evil lurked in all the corners.

"Mercenary, eh?" the vendor asked as he eyed his customer's attire. "Might wanna check the bounty board. Heard there's a 'uge one on that blond bloke's name. Williams or Wilson, or somethin' like that."

John stuck the gun in the holster not carrying Sherlock's pistol. Hood still covering his face, he lifted his head. "Watson? Captain John Watson?" he asked.

The hook-nosed vendor lifted a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm.. I think that's it." John thanked him, said his goodbyes, and scrambled over to the tattered papers taped onto the wall. His stomach dropped as the same picture of himself in his military photo was taped all over the board. Underneath the picture in bold read 'WANTED: Dead or Alive. ₤7000,000'.

Someone was _really _after his head. And apparently, so was every single madman in London.

* * *

**A/N:**

I almost forgot to write & post today. For some reason, I've been really out of it and didn't realize today was Friday.  
If I made any mistakes, it's because I didn't read over this. I'm dead tired. So it might be weirdly written and not flow-y.

**Thank you so much for reading, my fellow Holmies! Or Sherlockians. Take your pick.**


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

_**The Good Doctor  
**__**Chapter 15**_

_**The Hunt Begins**_

* * *

_CRASH_.

Broken bits of glass wood showered the room as a hooded figure flew through the window. Arthur jolted awake, paralyzed in fear. He reached for his gun that laid haphazardly on the small table next to his bed before the intruder grabbed his hand and slammed his arm on the nightstand.

"What the hell! Who are you?" he shouted as he nursed his wrist. He winced and suspected the bone to be fractured. The figure grabbed the front of his shirt and thrusted a crumpled paper in the man's face.

"What the _fuck_ is this? Is this your doing?" he demanded.

Arthur squinted at the tattered paper the mercenary ripped off the wall filled with his face as the moonlight shone brighter into the room now that the dirty window was destroyed. "That's...I didn't do that! I didn't authorize it!"

John shook the bondsman, his fist still clenched around the fabric of his clothes. "You better tell me exactly what is going on in the next ten seconds of else I _will_ kill you," he threatened. His eyes glinted from underneath the shadow of his hood, striking fear into the disoriented man sitting up in his bed. Everyone knew that out of all the bondsmen, he was number one, the one who controlled the warrants in the underground world. Anyone could place a bounty on the Bounty Hunter Wall, but when bounties were set, he acted as the middleman between the rich gangsters, crooked politicians, and businessmen and the low-lives that sold their morals for money. It was an efficient way for the powerful to get what they wanted without directly contacting the sinful who work to come by easy money.

Arthur fumbled for his glasses after turning on his bedside lamp, put them on, and slowly read the piece of paper beginning with the bounty amount. He let out a low whistle, still nursing his injured hand. "Well, whoever set this up certainly wants this John Watson fellow dead." He looked up at the hooded man. "But it wasn't me this time. I swear to God."

The Doctor let the man's shirt go and reached around his back. He pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at Arthur's head. "Tell me anything you know."

The bondsman's glasses slipped down his nose a bit as perspiration trickled down his face. He raised his hands. "I don't know anything!"

John cocked the gun and returned it to the position it was before. "I just got this, you see, and I'm eager to test it. One," he began.

The bondsman widened his eyes in terror. "I don't know! I swear! You're making a big mistake!"

"Two."

He began to tear up. For a criminal entrepreneur, he certainly wasn't as tough as he should be, John observed. "Please, I'm begging you. I'm just a middleman," he sobbed as he looked around the room wildly as if he'd find the answer written on the wall.

"Thr-"

"-M-Moriarty! Moriarty!" he yelled. John lowered his gun and grabbed the man's shirt again. Arthur continued to sob, shutting his eyes and mumbling "Oh God," over and over again.

"SHUT IT!" John commanded, annoyed at his cowardice. He put the tip of the gun right on the man's left temple and leaned in close. "Say it again."

"Say, say what?" he sniffled.

"The name."

"M-Moriarty," the man reiterated. "I heard r-rumors floating around, here and there. Whispers in dark places. He's very popular, you know," he added.

With that, John shoved Arthur back down into his bed and moved to climb out the window, treading on the broken glass as crunching noises drifted and filled the room. "You tell anyone I was here, I will kill you," he said in a quiet, lowered voice as he perched on the sill. "I found you once and I can do it again." Arthur vigorously shook his head and watched the stout, hooded, merciful mercenary leap out the window.

John hit the ground and winced. He lost his balance and fell forward on the pavement on all fours. He was furious; the world was after his head and he had put his loved ones in danger. Clenching his fists, he grit his teeth and slowly stood up, dragging his feet in the process. There was a slight sting on his elbow, but he ignored it knowing fully well that he had managed to scrape it. There were tiny cuts on his arms from the broken glass, but he didn't care. He had to make sure they were all safe. He started running towards 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock?" he called out, unsure whether or not the detective was home. He saw the faint glow of fire emanating from the upper level and made his way towards it. There on the couch laid the detective still in his coat. He had taken off his scarf and placed it on the table, but hadn't bothered with the thick outerwear. His shoes were strewn across the floor next to the couch.

"John," he answered back, his head towards him.

The blond leaned against the doorframe with his left forearm. "I, uh, need to get in contact with Mycroft."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Decided to take his offer?"

John stared at the back of his flatmate's head. "For a trade, yes."

The consulting detective merely held out his phone. John limped over and grabbed it giving Sherlock the opportunity to catch a glimpse at all of his new injuries. He tutted.

"Really, John. You should know better than to prance around showing the world your secret life."

The doctor ignored him and went to get the first aid kit stashed somewhere in the kitchen. After Sherlock's last experiment mishap, John had made sure to keep a bin around in case of an emergency. As he wrapped gauze around the stinging scrape on his elbow, he called Mycroft.

"Sherlock, what a surprise, dear brother," he answered, clearly undeterred.

"Hello, Mycroft. It's John."

"Well then, good evening, John," he replied, the surprise evident in his voice. "What can I do for you, this fine night?"

John lowered his voice, "I'll do it."

Mycroft paused on the other end. After a moment, he replied, "And I'm assuming there are certain stipulations?"

"Yes. I need information on someone, but I'll need to speak to you in person."

"Very well," the older Holmes answered. "I will get in contact." And with that, he hung up.

John handed the phone back to Sherlock after putting away the first aid kit and grabbed a fresh change of clothes.

Sherlock turned his head. "Going out?"

"You might say that," the doctor replied.

xxx

_Knock knock knock._

"Coming!"

_Knock knock knock knock knock._

"I said I'm coming! Don't get your bloody knickers in a twist," Harriet huffed as she headed towards the door. She grabbed the handle and swung it open. "What do you bloody wan-"

"-Harry."

She widened her eyes. "JOHNNY!" She threw her arms around her little brother and gave him a bone-crushing hug. "Oh my God. I thought you were dead or something! You idiot!" she cried as she let him go.

"Not here," he said in a hushed voice as he pulled her into her flat. She led him into her messy living room and sat him down, immediately heading towards the kitchen. After a few moments, she came back and sat down after setting down a tray of a bottle of whiskey, a clear cup, and a mug of hot tea for her brother. She poured herself a glass and gulped down an entire half-cup, refilling it immediately after.

"What the hell!" she spat out as she fumed with anger.

"Nice seeing you too, Harry," John replied with a stoic face.

His sister slammed her cup down. "What the hell, John?! Where have you been? What have you done? What the hell!" she cried.

The veteran stared into the angry face of his sister. They certainly looked alike, but she was obviously more feminine. Her nose was sharper, but their eyes were the same, inherited from their father. Her blonde hair was a tad shade darker than John's and was cut shoulder-length in a bob cut parted to the side. She pointed an accusing finger at him from the hand wrapped around the glass. "You bastard. Haven't heard from you in months, and how do I know you're even alive? You show up at my door after the telly's been blasting your face! What happened? What did you _do_? Do you know how much mum and dad are worried?"

The younger Watson sibling slowly sipped the cup of tea she set for him. "I can't exactly tell you, but I swear I didn't do anything bad. Harry, I need you to listen to me." She ignored him and poured another glass of whiskey.

"HARRY. Stop drinking for once in your life! God! Is this all you do?" He leaned over and grabbed her wrist. She immediately pulled out of grasp and threw the glass across the room in the direction of her brother which shattered on the wall behind John's head on impact. Harry glared at him while her brother blinked his eyes in shock.

"I'm-I'm sorry, alright? It's just..things haven't been the same anymore, not since, you know, after the...after-"

"-it's okay," she interjected. "Just, drop it." She knew he didn't like talking about Afghanistan and had refused to open up to her even when she begged him to. "I'm just glad you're safe."

John stood up. "You need to leave."

"Excuse me?" she asked incredulously.

"Harry, your life may be in danger. There are men out there to are trying to kill me and I can't afford to let them get to you. They know who I am, so it's only a matter of time. I've already transferred £25,000 to your account. Get mum and dad and leave the country. Now. Go on, pack your bags."

She gaped at her brother. "Are you mad? First of all, where did you get that kind of money? And second of all, I can't leave! Clara and I are trying to work things out!"

"Take her too then! Just hurry up!" He pushed her towards her bedroom and opened up her closet. He located a couple of bags and began shoving clothes in. "I'll wire more; call her and mum and dad. Now. I don't care how much you need, I'll wire you lot the amount. You need to leave the country. It's life or death." He grabbed her shoulders and stared her in the eye for a couple minutes. "You will _die_ if you stay here."

Her breath hitched in her throat.

"John Hamish Watson, what have you gotten into?" Harry asked as she watched him return to hastily cram her clothes in. Trembling out of slight fear, she grabbed a change of clothes (as she was in cotton shorts and a tank-top, her sleeping attire) and returned only to pick on him. "No, no, not those! Those are hideous," she said as she shoved her brother out of the way and took over.

John rubbed the back of his neck. "So...do you know where you want to go?"

"I dunno, John. Hawaii?"

Hours later after a couple phone calls, they travelled to their parents and forced them out of the house, much to their resistance and confusion. They had thought it was all a joke until John pulled down his trousers to show them the bullet wound that was still healing to prove it was recent and not from his military days. They swung by Harry's ex who, much to their surprise, had moved on and was interrupted from time with her new girlfriend by a heartbroken Harry.

"Hi, John," Clara said leaning on the door frame. She turned to his sister. "Sorry, Harry, but I don't think things are going to work out. You have a problem and I'm done dealing with it." she concluded and promptly shut the door in the older Watson sibling's face. Harriet shakily turned around, trying not to shed tears.

"I-I-"

"-shh, it's alright," John said as he took her hand and tugged, leading her down the steps and into the cab where their parents pretended that they had not witnessed what had just happened to spare their daughter embarrassment and pain. They rode to a private airfield in silence with the occasional sniffle from Harry. He had called in a favor by a former client who owed him. As the cabbie came to a stop, he quickly changed into his mercenary uniform behind the vehicle as his family huddled around the boot, trying to grab their suitcases out of the car.

"Erikson?" John asked an attendant walking towards them in a lowered voice.

"Yes, the plane is fueled and for take off."

"Good," he nodded under his hood.

Harry leaned towards him and asked, "When did you change? And what's with the get up? You look silly." He brushed her off and turned around when they reached the plane.

"Stay safe. Lie low. Here are your passports." He handed them each a small professionally imitated booklet with their faces pasted into them, but with fake information. "Contact this email if you want to reach me but sign with your fake names." He handed them a card. "I'll be returning them if I can under Hamish Wilson."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Mrs. Watson read. "Dear, isn't that the nice man who's always on the telly and on the papers?" she asked her husband. He squinted his eyes and looked at the card.

"Yes, yes, it is. We're allies. Now, get on the plane. Erikson already put your luggage on," their son said as he pushed them up towards the stairs. A few moments later, he watched as his family waved goodbye from the windows, receding into the black night sky. He half feared it would blow up into pieces, but they were safe. He waved back and watched them leave him all alone again.

xxx

_"Gener-Moran," John whispered to his comrade hanging next to him. John ignored the stinging pain from his wrists which he had twisted and turned to escape his shackles so much to the point where they were rubbed raw and beginning to bleed. His general had passed out again, the pain of the debris lodged into his eye and the bone around his eye socket proving to be too much to handle._

_ Suddenly, the door opened with a loud bang. Light from torches outside the door in the cave tunnel shone into their small room. John squinted his eyes, trying to adjust to the sensation. Two bearded men wearing turbans and tunics were wearing semi-automatic rifles slung around their torso and shoulder. The doctor pegged them as Al Queda members. One of them was holding a Sig Sauer, presumably taken from a British soldier. They spoke in a language John could not understand-Persian, most likely._

_ The one wearing a faded red turban nodded to the other who immediately grabbed a torch and brought one into the empty room. The other asked John a question._

_ "I don't speak Persian," he told them. The man wearing the dark grey turban grabbed his gun and hit John in the stomach with the end. The blond sputtered and coughed. He turned to his colleague and ordered him to do something._

_ "Wha-what are you doing?" he panicked as they called in more men who brought in various weapons. A larger man wearing the uniform of an Afghan soldier walked into the room with a weathered silver chair and stopped in front of John who stared directly into his eyes. He said something in Persian and the others filed out, closing the door behind them._

_ "British, are we? And I see, we have a general and a, a doctor?" he said in English as he observed the badges and colors on John's belt. The blond's beret was long gone, lost somewhere in the sand. He paced the captives. "Wounded. Both of you." He returned to their front and dragged the chair, sitting on it backwards and resting his elbows on the back rest. "I can get you medical help, but first, tell me what you know of your camp. Where were you heading?"_

_ "What are you doing? Aren't you an Afghan soldier?" John asked, eyeing the man's clothes. _

_ "Hah. Many questions, this one has." He rolled up his sleeves. "I will ask one more time: where was your camp heading when you got attacked?"_

_ The blond clenched his jaw. He had nothing to say. If he were to die today, it would be his honor defending his men and his country. The man watched the defiant look cross the male's face. "Very well. We'll begin with the sword."_

xxx

Sherlock was busy with an experiment in the kitchen. It was in the middle of the night, but he was intensely focused on the slides under the microscope he was peering through. The cells looked as if they hadn't changed, he thought. He lifted his head and recorded his findings in a journal. He swapped the slide with the next one. After a few minutes, he began to hear John shuffling around on the couch. He assumed his flatmate had bad habits in his sleep and attempted to ignore him, but it became quite annoying when he heard a mug fall off the coffee table and shatter on the floor.

"Will you shut it, John? I'm trying to concentrate," Sherlock called out as he turned the knob on the microscope to focus the magnification. He began tuning the mercenary out until he began to whimper. The consulting detective froze, listening.

"N-no, I'll nev-" John uttered before he began shouting in his sleep. "Ahh!" he screamed, thrashing around.

Sherlock whipped his head towards the couch and stood up. "John? John," he called out, trying to wake his flatmate. It was no use. He was stuck in a night terror.

"Stop! No, I don't know!" he yelled defiantly to no one in particular. "Ahhhh!" he screamed. Sherlock briskly walked over to the blond man and shook him.

"John! Wake up!" he yelled. He grabbed his colleague's shoulders, but it was no use. He slapped him lightly on the cheek. "JOHN. YOU'RE HAVING A NIGHTMARE," he nearly shouted at the top of his lungs, but even he couldn't hear himself over the veteran's screaming. "Fine, I did not want to do this but..." The detective pressed his fingers down on the bullet wound that still hurt John's leg. He applied pressure to increase the pain, hoping it would wake him up.

The screaming stopped for a split second when John opened his eyes, but continued when his brain registered the physical pain. "AHH! SHERLOCK WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" he angrily cried. The dark-haired man stopped the pressure and straightened back up.

"You were having a nightmare and could not wake up so I resorted to stimulate pain by applying pressure to your physical injury in an attempt to force your brain to exit its deep REM stage and respond to the influxuation of pain," he explained simply as if John had asked him instead what two plus two was.

The blond sat up and clutched his leg, rubbing the sore area. "Oh. Um, thanks, I guess," he said as sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was breathing heavily as adrenaline rushed through his body. Memories of Afghanistan had finally made their way into this conscious brain. He closed his eyes and tried to forget what he had just remembered, but couldn't.

Sherlock stood up, walked to the kitchen, and returned a few moments later. "Take this," he said, handing the blond a small pill and a cup of water. "Sleeping pill. It'll help you go back to sleep, even though you probably already knew that."

John accepted it and tossed the pill into his mouth, gulping down all the of water. "Thanks," he said, although in reality, he was thanking him for not asking questions. Without a word, his flatmate had already resumed his experiment in the kitchen as John drifted off into a dreamless sleep, thanks to his new friend.

* * *

**A/N:  
**Short chap & not much progress but I wanted to get something out because I hadn't for the past two weeks. I'm so sorry! Life has been kicking me in the nonexistent balls. Haha  
I got a job that was ridiculous, but I quit that because of the way they worked me like a slave and treated me like dirt.  
The semester is also winding down, but the work is piling up. T^T Everyone who is a student, I feel you.  
BUT now that I quit that ridic job w/ the ridic hours, I have more time to write.  
I promise I'll try to update whenever I can. Love you guys :)  
**Thank you for reading!**


	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss._

**The Good Doctor  
Chapter 16**

**I Remember You**

* * *

John sat up on the couch as rain relentlessly attacked the windows. It was extremely early in the morning and the sun hadn't begun to rise yet, although John supposed it could easily be simply due to the overcast sky and rain. _Sleeping pills. Knew it wouldn't work for long_, he thought. He stared at a nick in the floor, his eyes heavy with the desire to rest. He couldn't return to slumber no matter how much he wanted to sleep. His memories-no, his nightmares returned to plague his dreams once again. With prominent bags and dark circles hugging John's eyes, he sat still as he feebly attempted to knock out the memories, but it was impossible.

A loud thunder cracked and boomed across the sky and John suddenly winced as he remembered what he and the general had gone through.

Sebastian.

He remembered now. It was what he and Sebastian had gone through.

John absentmindedly rubbed his shoulder.

_John twisted and wriggled his hands as the Afghani soldier turned his back to pick up a weapon. He was ravenous and exhausted. How many days had been since he'd last seen daylight? How long had they been captured? Their captor hummed to what sounded like Beethoven's _Fur Elise_. After sifting through various options, he finally chose one and turned back around. _

_ "Now, now, I'll only hurt you if don't cooperate."_

_ The doctor stopped struggling and glared at the soldier who began rolling up the sleeves of his arms. John clenched his jaw which only prompted the man to laugh heartily._

_ "Silly doctor. What's that phrase again? Oh, 'if looks could kill'?" he chuckled, "Now, tell me. Where was your camp heading?" He paused for a moment waiting for an answer but was only met with silence. "Very well. I suppose you're pretty useless to me. It's your general I want, but unfortunately, he's currently incapacitated, but that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun. You're just here to make sure _he _doesn't die before I get what I want," he said and placed the weapon on the dirt-ridden floor. The muscular man walked over to the side of the 'room' and untied the rope that chains on the blond's shackles were connected to, dropping John to the floor as the soldier continued humming his rendition of the piano melody. Since the the doctor's arms had been up for hours, John had no strength to move them, a fact to which his captor took advantage of. His feet were still bound so it was no use trying to do anything with his lower appendages. His captor removed the bullet proof vest, John's shirt, and his jacket by using a sharp knife and ripping them off until all that was left was his dog tags, resting on his bare flesh. The man yanked the rope and John felt his legs being yanked up into the air. The blood quickly rushed to his head as his dangled upside down. His eyes and head were beginning to throb as the pressure increased and his arms ached from being pulled taut. The man then tossed the discarded, torn fabric of John's uniform off to the side of the room and picked up his weapon and unfurled it. He unceremoniously raised a black whip and with a loud crack, struck it against John's bare flesh. Feeling satisfied, he proceeded to do more._

_ Crack!_

_ Crack!_

_ Crack!_

_ The whipping went on for several minutes until the skin on the doctor's back was raw and bloody, patches ripped off and others barely hanging on by a thread._

_ "Had enough?" he asked breathily as he turned John around, still dangling in the air._

_ "Go to hell, traitor," John seethed after several gasps of breath. This angered the man. He grabbed a pistol from his holster and struck it against the blond's head. Dark red blood trickled down John's pale flesh into his bloody, blond, matted hair. His temple throbbed and his vision blurred for a moment. _

_ "British soldiers. Think you're all superior. You make me sick," the man spat out as he continued to mercilessly whip his victim's back. John hadn't let out a single utterance at that point, gritting his teeth to keep himself from giving the man the satisfaction of him crying out in pain. The soldier gave a sadistic smile and walked over and dragged a tub of water. _

Another crack of thunder shot across the sky, jolting his thoughts and John jumped up as his heart raced. It was thudding so hard, he thought it might actually pound out of his chest. He tried to slowly breathe in and out, but it was of no use. He attempted to calm his shaky breath but leapt to the corner of the couch when another crack of thunder shot across the sky. He yelped and grabbed his ears, curling up in the back corner of the furniture.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he called out. He peeked over to the kitchen and saw that his flatmate wasn't there. The lights were off, but it was quiet. He could see the faint outlines of a microscope and various beakers, but the silhouette of the unruly-haired man was missing. It was evident the detective had retired to his room. The wind howled, shaking the windows. John shivered as he realized how low the temperature had gotten. He wrapped the blanket he had around himself and buried his head, trying to block out the cracks of thunder that sounded eerily like the whipping he had gone through in Afghanistan.

CRACK!

Thunder boomed as lightning struck across the sky, illuminating the fear in John's eyes. It was highly irrational for him to be acting this way, but in his sleep deprived state, he couldn't tell what was real and what was fake. All he could see and feel were the sadistic Afghan soldier striking him and the raw bloody mess he was. His back felt as it were on fire. John scrambled out of the couch and hurriedly shuffled as quickly as he could to Sherlock's door. Of course, he wouldn't enter it (that would be weird), but he knew that just beyond the door, was another living soul, a breathing person who would be there when John woke up later. He laid down on the floor in front of the door and curled into a ball, his blanket covering his form as his post-traumatic stress took over his body. His muscles, tired from being rigid due to fear began to relax as he listened to a light snoring drifting through the crack under the door, lulling him to sleep as the sound reassured him that he wasn't alone and wasn't, in fact, back in Afghanistan.

Sherlock's eyes slowly opened as his body began waking. His mind was already up and alert the moment he ended his REM cycle, but his body was a bit slow in the mornings. It was quite annoying, really, but there was nothing he could do. His brain was like an entity of its own, possessing Sherlock's body and demanding it to keep up. He hated mornings; he preferred the nights where he was alert and free to do as he wished. Mornings meant hours attempting to muster nonexistent energy. He yawned and scratched his head, grabbing his night gown as he shivered from the chilly air. He pulled it on and went to wash up. It was still cold and he wasn't hungry yet, but he could do with a fire so he opened his door to step out into the living room when he suddenly tripped over something. He fell face first into the floor with a thud and lifted his head, turning it around to see what his feet had caught on.

"What...John?" Sherlock asked. The blanket-covered lump on the ground didn't move. The detective hoisted himself up and squatted next to the body, nearly slipping on the fabric of his night gown. He pulled the blanket and slid it off the figure, revealing his flatmate's face. He slept so quietly and rigidly, much unlike the night before when he was thrashing about. Sherlock leaned in, trying to see if he was breathing. He checked John's pulse and was the tiniest bit relieved to find out that the man wasn't dead. Without a second thought, he stood up and threw the blanket back onto him and left the man to his own device. Something must had disturbed the mercenary for him to purposefully choose to sleep on the floor, or perhaps he slept-walked. Either way, he didn't care. The detective drank a glass of water, put the kettle on, and doubled back to get a fire starting. He was cold and clearly remembered John turning the heat up; the only logical explanation for the sudden drop in temperature was that it had broken sometime during the night or the mercenary turned it off.

Sherlock sat down on an armchair in front of the fire and watched as the flames danced around the logs. Precipitation hit the windows behind him as the wind howled against the windows, angry at its failure to enter the flat.

"Dunno..." John muttered in his sleep as he rolled over. Sherlock paid no concern whatsoever and ignored him as he grabbed his laptop to check his email for cases.

Dull.

Dull.

No.

The school teacher did it.

It was the neighbor.

No.

Hm...no.

A few hours later, John bolted upright and reached around for his gun out of instinct. He patted the floor a few times until he realized where he was and relaxed.

"Morning, Sherlock," he called over to his flat mate who was reading a book. He was ignored as usual, so he stood up and went to take a shower. Already stripped of his clothing, John stood before the shower and stared at the water pouring down from above. His back tingled as an aftereffect of his nightmare, but the sight of the water made his throat tighten. He swallowed thickly and stepped under the water that was much too hot for his skin, but he grit his teeth and stood still under the burning water. He wanted to feel something, anything, to take his mind off of his traumatic memories. He had done a great job keeping them at bay, but the memories began flooding in once he realized the immensity of the trouble he was in. The doctor squeezed his eyes shut in a futile effort to shut the memories out, but it was no use.

The water.

All it took was the water to trigger his fear.

_"Are you thirsty?" the Afghani man asked John in a thick accent. Of course he was; he had been deprived of food and water ever since they got here, but he refused to dignify his torturer with an answer. Instead, John glared at the muscled soldier who laughed and loosened the rope off to the side. John fell onto his back on the ground with a hard thud. He groaned and hissed as the components in the dirt underneath them stung his raw and bloodied skin, but before he could register what was happening, his limbs were being stretched as the chains increased its tension. His arms felt like they were about to be popped out of their sockets; he was trapped on his back, John realized, as he wildly thrashed his neck around to get a look at what was happening. The dark-skinned captor rubbed the thin mustache above his lip in a mockingly thoughtful manner. _

_ "My guest is thirsty, so I must make sure he gets water." He smirked and grabbed the tub of water so heavy, he dragged it over and then struggled to lift it, but the man finally got it in place above John's face. "Here, have some water," he said, and mercilessly tipped it over._

_ As the water poured into all of the orifices on the doctor's face, he gagged as water flooded into his mouth, nose, throat, and lungs. He felt like he was drowning. He gagged and tried to prevent it from entering his mouth but it was of no use. It filled his nostrils to the brim and he choked. Somewhere above him, he knew the general had stirred awake by his utterance of "John!"_

The mercenary hastily shut off the water when he was done as he didn't want to spend any more time than he needed to under the liquid that almost killed him many times over in the desert. His hands were shaking as he wiped himself off with a soft towel and softly grazed the scarred skin on his back. Breathing in to calm his racing pulse, he pulled his robe around his body and eventually tied it after failing to do so the first couple times due to his trembling hands. He stared at his fogged reflection in the mirror which he could barely make out and took in a deep breath. He opened the door and went out to the living room, ruffling his wet hair with a towel but jumped when something dangling in the air gave him a fright.

"What the hell?" he nearly shouted as a mannequin's body hung from a noose. "Sher-," he began, but John shook his head and let it go. The man must have had his reasons. If he had learned anything these past few weeks, it was that it was much easier to just...let it go.

Said detective was squatting on the couch, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His hands were pressed together and his fingers were fidgeting against one another. "John, get me a case. I'm bored."

John sat down, a towel hanging around his neck to catch the dripping water from his wet locks of slicked back hair. He picked up the morning paper and began reading. "Didn't you say you were supposed to meet with Lestrade?" John asked casually.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Yes. Well, Scotland Yard is useless at this point if they can't find you. I suppose he wants me to check in on my progress, but I daresay he won't be finding out anytime soon. Unless of course he wants to speak to me about the new murder."

The doctor was in the middle of reading the headline of the murder Sherlock was talking about. "Huh. That's funny..." John muttered as he read the article.

"We could go searching for evidence for your case. But I suppose you can't prance around London with your face all over the news."

At the mention of his framing, the doctor hesitated. He didn't wholly trust this man even though he considered him as a friend; should he divulge the information he had? Sherlock was his only shot...but then there was Mycroft. John knew they weren't close, or at least as close as what Mycroft thought they were, so if he asked the older Holmes sibling, the information would most likely not trickle down to Sherlock if John asked to be discreet. No, he would wait, wait until he completed the task for Mycroft and force him to get information on "Moriarty". For now, Sherlock was his invisibility cloak.

A few days later, a black car pulled up in front of the flat and Mycroft stepped out into the continuous rain. He entered their home and thumped up the stairs, met with the sight of his little brother and his new friend sitting at the table and eating. Well, John was eating but his sibling was not. He frowned.

"Sherlock, do try to eat more. You've gotten slimmer since the last time I saw you."

Said brother who was reading the newspaper raised an eyebrow in response. John chewed the bite of eggs he had in his mouth and swallowed it.

"John, do make sure Sherlock eats properly," Mycroft said as he turned to the mercenary.

Said mercenary gulped down some water. "Sherlock is a big boy. He can handle himself," he retorted immediately without a care.

"How's the diet?" Sherlock asked behind the paper as he ignored their exchange.

Mycroft leaned his umbrella on the side of the table they were eating at and sat down. "Going well, Sherlock. Nevermind that. John, I believe we have some business to settle?"

The mercenary nodded towards the seat in front of the table. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but sat down anyway. He thought the man would've preferred to have the conversation in private, but apparently John wasn't fussy enough to keep his work away from his brother. Who was this man, waltzing into his brother's life as if he were always there?

"As you know, my job is to keep the security of this nation uncompromised," he began.

Sherlock scoffed.

Mycroft pointedly ignored his younger brother. "It has come to my attention that a certain...individual has been growing increasingly restless and has managed to garner my attention."

John chewed on his toast thoughtfully. "And you need me to take him out?"

The older Holmes pursed his lips. "I would like you to, outside of the British government, of course, track him down and keep an eye on him."

That wasn't as hard as the mercenary thought it would be. "And why are you asking me, a contractor, and not a government agent?" he asked.

Sherlock, who had been eavesdropping with mild curiosity, simply stated, "Because they don't know where he is. And there's no viable evidence to his criminal activities. There are no legal grounds but it doesn't matter anyway if they end up chasing a ghost."

"Right as always, Sherlock. I'm afraid my men have a bit of a problem with this..individual. It has come to my attention that your services have proven to be successful in most of your endeavors. Well, except the current 'predicament' you have come to find yourself faced with."

The blond swallowed the masticated food in his mouth. "I accept, but on one condition."

"And what, may I ask, is that?" Mycroft asked.

"I need information."

The older gentleman frowned again. "Hm, I suppose it depends on what you need. Very well then. I shall do my best to accommodate your demands."

Sherlock, tired of the banal conversation, stood up and walked up to the window behind them and stretched. He bent down to pick up his violin, his eyes roaming the window in front of his, but something wasn't quite right. The detective straightened himself back up and stared out into the smoggy grayness of the London sky and caught sight of a glinting speck atop a roof that most definitely should not have been there. He squinted to get a better look, but before he could react when he realized what it was, something crashed through the window and tore through his shoulder.

"Sherlock!" the two men yelled simultaneously. John dove towards the lithe man and kneeled next to the detective. Bits of broken glass stabbed his knees through his trousers. John grimaced, but worked through the pain. Sherlock was conscious, but in shock. He gasped and blinked several times as he stared up at the ceiling.

"Sniper," he wheezed out. John took in the damage and saw that his flatmate had been shot atop his left shoulder muscle, prompting his instincts as a doctor to immediately took over.

"Brace yourself for a moment," he told the detective as he quickly rolled his shoulder. He saw a clean exit and set him back down. Sherlock hissed through his teeth.

"Good, good. Just a flesh wound. Clean shot, in and out. Didn't hit any bones," he assessed as he pulled off his jumper and put it on the wound, pressing both hands on it in an effort to stop the bleeding.

"Mycroft, call an ambulance!" He snapped his head up and saw that he really didn't have to ask because the older Holmes was already in the process. He nodded at whatever the operator was telling him and hung up, immediately diving down to his brother's side.

"Here, put your hands here," John ordered. Mycroft replaced the doctor's hands with his own. Sherlock tried to sit up but his brother pushed him back down.

"He's getting away!" the detective spat out.

John looked around for a gun but couldn't find one, so he grabbed Mycroft's umbrella and hurriedly half limped, half ran the stairs and out the back door. He looked up and calculated the angle of the shot from the window and trailed his eyes straight across. There was only one building which a sniper could have taken that shot, so he ran past the dashing, honking cars on the road and towards the building which was pretty far. In the duration of his time spent in the military, he had made friends with a general, Sebastian, who had retired from a special forces group as very skilled sniper before climbing the ranks. It was from that man John had learned a great deal about sniping, an artform brushed off simply as 'good shooting' by many.

The blond scaled the architecture by lifting himself onto the fire escape. By this time, he knew the man who had shot at him was long gone, but that didn't mean the gunman might not have left clues behind. He reached the top floor and noticed plastic fluttering in the wind. The window was open and the tattered plastic looked as if it had been cut recently. The doctor held Mycroft's umbrella and gripped the handle, carefully moving the flaps from the opening just in case. He cocked the hidden trigger on the weapon he _knew_ was inside of Mycroft's "umbrella" and peered in and saw there was no one. There was, however, a small glass corked bottle with something odd in it, but the object was too far away from him. A still-lit cigarette was resting on the lid, wafting the smell of nicotine and burning chemicals toward the mercenary. John slipped inside and jumped down the sill, noticing a small black mark on the peeling, faded white paint on the frame. _That must have been where the sniper was resting his gun_, he thought.

Cautiously, the doctor made his way slowly towards the object just in case it was rigged, but the closer he got, the more he realized it was nothing more than a small bottle. He squatted down and carefully picked it up, holding it level to his eyes as he snuffed out the cigarette with the heel of his shoe. In the clear container was a broken piece of shrapnel. Puzzled, he stared at it for a moment and squinted his eyes and looked at it closer.

As realization dawned on him, the blood drained from his face. No, this sniper was definitely not aiming for him. He had shot Sherlock on purpose because the man who had taken the shot was more than capable of getting a perfect shot. Why he didn't kill him but instead, _chose_ to injure him he wasn't sure, but from this calling card, John knew _exactly_ who it was: General Sebastian Moran.

xxx

Sherlock struggled to get out of the hospital bed as his feet tangled in the thin, flimsy cotton poor excuse of a blanket. At Mycroft's insistance, they had put him in a bed to rest when all he needed was an arm brace and painkillers. They were pumping him with antibiotics through an IV in a vein on his right hand. He had tried to take it out, but Mycroft had swatted his hand.

"Stop it. You're not a child, Sherlock. You've been shot."

"Exactly, Mycroft. I've been shot. I'm not dying. I need to get out and catch the madman who _shot _at me," he retorted angrily. He was absolutely irritated at the entire situation. The older Holmes refused to let him budge.

"_Stay here,_ Sherlock. I'll be right back," he orded his younger brother. Sherlock rolled his eyes and searched the room for his phone. The paramedics who had answered the call had rolled him in on a stretcher, strapping him down due to his resistance and reluctance to go to the hospital. He had put his cellphone into his pocket, but he wasn't sure if it had fallen out during the chaos. Lestrade had come in after they fixed him up, bombarding him with questions. The detective gave the inspector as much information as he could, but there was only so much he knew. When the police left, his brother had refused to leave his side and had been watching his every move like a hawk.

Mycroft stood up and left, ordering a nearby nurse to go in and watch his brother. "Do _not_ let him leave your sight, understand?" The older Holmes then went on his way to fetch coffee. Sighing, Mycroft paid for the drink, hesitated, and got tea for his brother-chamomille to make him sleepy. It wasn't beneath him to put in a sleeping pill, but he didn't quite have legal access to a bottle so he settled for tea for his annoying brother and coffee for himself. Without caffiene, he wouldn't have enough energy to deal with the annoying mass of genius that his brother was. He made his way back down the hall, two cups in hand and started his way inside the room as he made a mental note to get his umbrella back from John (afterall, it was custom made) when he stopped in his tracks, frozen in the doorframe.

The bed before him was empty and the window was open and its former occupant as well as the nurse was nowhere to be seen. He immediately set the cups down on the side table and strode towards the window. He stuck his head out and failed to see a single hair of the detective.

"Sherlock!' he yelled out fruitlessly.

xxx

The sky was getting darker as the sun began preparing for slumber. The blond doctor had steered clear of the flat he shared with the detective as it was now a crime scene. He was glad he had hidden his things away, scattering them throughout the flat; the police would surely fail to find his things. He needed a few supplies, however, and a wave of gratefulness washed over him as he thought of the things he had stashed in Harry's shed a long time ago unbeknownst to her. He used to think his hyper paranoia and habit of being very suspicious of people was more of a hindrance, but the more he became knee-deep in conspiracies and murder, John was glad he was paranoid.

The doctor walked down the street and successfully swiped a tucked pair of sunglasses from a passerby with his deft fingers and hailed down a cab, making his way towards his sister's empty house. When he left the vehicle and watched it leave, the mercenary made his way to the shed in the backyard and opened the weathered door. The rusted hinges squeaked as he did so and the doctor was greeted with the sight of normal gardening tools: shears, a spade, a shovel, and gloves, amongst other things. He stepped inside, taking off his sunglasses and grabbed the small spade. He pried a few boards up and off the floor, opening the inside to the dirt from below the slightly elevated shed. He began digging with the tool until a black bag began showing through the brown dirt. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he grunted as he pulled on the material and eventually pulled it completely out from its hiding place. He filled the hole with the dirt and put the boards back. John exited the shed and dusted the remaining dirt off of the duffle bag, shaking the big pieces loose and patting the rest down.

The mercenary walked up to Harry's back door and squatted as he unzipped the length of the bag and then felt around until his fingers caught onto a small, rectangular, thin box. He pulled it out and opened it, taking his pick-locking tools. He had a key, of course, but said key was somewhere in the flat back at Baker Street along with the keys to the flat itself. Because he had no choice, he went to work quickly, glancing around him as he did so just in case he was in sight of prying eyes. John heard a satisfying click and quickly stood up, opening the door and shutting it as soon as he entered the home. He turned on the light (his neighbors didn't know Harry hadn't been home, nevermind the fact that she wasn't even in the same country) and began unbuttoning his shirt. He had stuffed an extra shirt of kevlar (a sleeveless turtleneck, not his usual mask-like shirt), pants, combat boots, and a copy of his hooded cape as well as rope, extra ammunition and a Glock 17 in preparation of an emergency a long time ago. He changed quickly and realized he didn't have his night vision sunglasses. He needed something to cover his eyes, but allow him to see. John began rummaging through his sister's things, looking for nothing in particular, but also for _anything_. He found himself rifling through a storage closet when he found art supplies, and among that, black paint. _That will do_, he thought as he began smearing it across his skin where his eyes were. He ended up painting a large. rough horizontal stripe that extended from temple to temple, covering every inch of his eyelids and even the bridge of his nose. He tossed the tube of paint into his bag and turned off the light as he left.

He was on a mission.

John entered the dim underground tunnel with the handles of the dufflebag looped around one shoulder and walked past the black market dealers all yelling out prices and deals as criminals wandered around and aruged to get the best deals. He approached the man from whom he had bought his night-vision shades. Only William Belham had the best technology available to the criminals of the underground world and many of them were of his own design. His services were open to everyone ranging from contract killers to governments around the world, but the governments didn't know that.

"William," he greeted as he walked closer.

"Ah, Doctor. Good to see you. Heard you're in a bit of a tiff," he commented.

John nodded, but all the tech dealer could see was a black hood bobbing up and down as the man's face was completely obscured by the hood, however, today the kevlar that extended up past his nose was absent. This was the first time he ever caught a glimpse of the man's face, albeit a partial visual. The mercenary reached over and picked up a USB as well as a small circular device. The dealer watched closely; even though the man was short, he was fit and built. He watched as the mercenary's muscles bulged with the movement from his sleeveless outfit. The Doctor turned it over in his gloved hands and held it up as if to ask an unspoken question. The less said, the better.

"Need a small explosion?" the scraggly-haired dealer asked.

John nodded.

William scratched his cheek and crossed his arms. "Yeah, that's a good one then. Small explosion, but not too big. Enough to blow people back, but not enough to blow them up. Real beaut."

"I'll take it."

John wired the money from the laptop William had and then handed over the items.

"Thank you for your business. I wish you luck on your endeavor," he called to John's retreating mercenary merely raised his hand to acknowledge the man as he continued to walk, disappearing into the crowd.

John made his way towards Scotland Yard, but stopped a block before he did so and hid in the shadows of a building, waiting patiently. An hour must have gone by until a policeman came sauntering down the sidewalk. The young man was by himself, whistling a tune as he twirled his hat on a single finger, clearly disregarding the uniform regulation. John watched as the man walked closer and closer, each step towards him amplifying in his ears. This was it; it was time to pounce on his prey. He stood up from his squatting position and waited until the young officer was literally in front of him. John reached out and covered the man's mouth with one hand while wrapping his other arm around the officer's throat, pulling him into the shadows. Not a single head walking down the street noticed, even though the officer's hat fell and landed on the concrete.

"Mmmph! Mmmpphh!" the struggling man's muffled screams sounded out against John's hand. The blond pulled his arm tighter against the young policeman's throat, holding him in a sleeper hold. The offier's eyelids became heavy and eventually fluttered shut as he passed into an unconscious state. John went to work quickly, stripping the policeman of his uniform and stuffing his own clothes into his duffle bag. He took out the rope and tied the officer's limbs together in a complicated knot he had learned from Moran. He picked the man's body up and set it in a corner. "Be good and stay here while I go run some errands," he whispered and patted the unconscious man's cheek. John realized that his eyes were still painted, so he slipped into a restaurant after picking up the hat and slipping it on, adjusting it with his white-gloved hands. He held his head down and went into the loo to wash his face. When he got it all off, he dried the water off and exited the restroom as he put the hat back on his head.  
"Evening, officer," a waitress greeted. John smiled and tipped his hat. He quickly walked down a block and reached Scotland Yard at last. He walked straight in, his head still held low as the brim of the hat covered his eyes.

"Evening," a few men and women greeted. John nodded at each of them and hastily made his way up to the second floor and down the hall. He needed to use a detective's computer in order to gain access to the national database. It was kind of insulting how easy it was to sneak into the police head quarters without so much as a second glance pointed towards him, but he was mostly glad for it. John's hand hovered above the doorknob to an office of one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade as he reached out to open it when a voice stopped him.

"Halt!"

* * *

**A/N:**

Time really slipped away from me & every time I tried to upload this, something would happen, like the internet would stop working. Lol  
I had a ton more to write for this chap, but it was getting long so I cut it short.  
I hope everyone had a wonderful break! Missed you all.


	17. Chapter 17

_The Good Doctor_  
Chapter 17

**Unknown**

* * *

"We've already checked the body. No ID, fingerprints were burned off, no dental records. Sounds like the warehouse. Think it might be facing a serial killer?" Lestrade mentioned as Sherlock peered towards the bottom of a steep cliff. The blue and red light of the police vehicles flashed behind them. A pair of policemen rolled out the yellow tape to isolate the scene. On the ground below them laid a body, the limbs jutting out at awkward angles. Lestrade turned his attention and glanced at the crude sling Sherlock had fastened from a sheet of some kind. "What's wrong with your arm?"

"Nothing."

"Did you get shot?"

"Yes, but it's none of your concern."

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?" he asked, a bit taken aback.

"I was discharged."

The Inspector raised an eyebrow in disbelief and then trailed his eyes downwards, noticing the consulting detective's lack of trousers. "Are you...never mind." Lestrade didn't want to know. He'd been too busy for the past twenty four hours. Whatever Sherlock had tangled himself into, he would find out later anyway.

"I need to get a closer look," Sherlock said as he brushed past the Inspector to make his way down the incline.

"Mind those rocks," the Inspector warned close behind. Rocks began to dislodge from the dirt and crumble as Sherlock slid further down. He nearly slipped, but caught himself in time. They finally reached the level surface and with one glance, Sherlock discovered all that he needed. He squatted next to the body after pulling on latex gloves and rummaged through the victim's pockets and came out with nothing but a handful of coins that escaped the missing wallet, but judging by his attire, the deceased was definitely a wealthy man. His fit body was clothed in nothing but high quality brand names. Armani. Versace. Rolex. Everything from his watch to his polished shoes was worth more than Lestrade's annual salary two times over.

Catching a glint of light on the watch from the flashlight Lestrade was holding, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He picked up the limp arm and studied the timepiece, scrutinizing every detail. He removed it and exhaled hot breath onto the glass face where a slight smudge showed and to his confirmation, a partial fingerprint was visible for a moment.

"Is that-" Lestrade began.

"-Yes."

The Inspector turned his head and called out for an evidence bag.

Back at Scotland Yard, John Watson stopped in his tracks halfway to an office of one 'Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade'. The place was mostly empty besides a few employees working on cases that were nearly impossible to crack, or catching up on paperwork and the likes. A man near John's left put a folder in a filing cabinet and shuffled back to his desk.

"What is your business? The Inspector isn't in right now," the female behind him asked.

John turned his head slightly and peered over his shoulder and caught sight of a light mocha-skinned woman. She was in the process of putting on her coat and her tight, frizzy hair bounced as she walked towards him.

"I'm waiting for an answer, officer."

At least she just told him no one was in the Detective Inspector's office. All John needed to do was think of an excuse quickly. "I was told to fetch something for the Inspector," he said.

The woman stopped a little bit behind him and crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one hip. "Fetch what?"

"A file."

She hesitated and John wondered if that was too weak of an excuse, so he continued. "A file on Captain John Watson, a missing suspect. The Detective Inspector forgot it in his office and needs it immediately."

She narrowed her eyes a bit, but nodded. "Fine. Carry on then," she said before turning on her heel to leave. John watched the woman as she disappeared around the corner, scrolling through her phone and holding it up to her ear. John took out a small bag that held his small lock-picking tools to gain entry into the office.

John slipped in and shut the door quietly as he could and reached into his pocket. He turned on the lamp that sat on Lestrade's desk and pulled out a small USB that contained a program that enabled him to hack the database and delete his newly created criminal file. John sat back as he uploaded a bug onto the computer. He would be able to monitor any activity the Detective Inspector did. After it completed, someone rapped on the door after rattled the locked handle. In a panic, John spotted a folder on the desk that read 'Watson, John H.' and quickly grabbed it as he stuffed the USB back into his pocket.

"Officer, come out with your hands up where I can see them. That's an order!" The woman from earlier banged on the door loudly.

"Sergeant Donovan, what's going on?" a muffled voice asked from the other side. The woman, Donovan, ignored her colleague.

John looked around for an escape route, something he probably should have done beforehand, but found none. The window wasn't able to open and there wasn't an air duct to crawl through. The only way out was the way he came in. Cautiously, John slid along the length of the closed blinds on the windows that overlooked the desks outside and slowly unlocked the door. The sergeant banged again and tried the handle once more, but to her surprise, it gave way.

Donovan swung the door open, unknowingly hiding the mercenary from view. John heard a small click as the woman released the safety on her gun as she slowly searched the office. John carefully slipped out from behind the door as she jumped behind the desk to see if he was hiding. He made a beeline for the exit as she turned around and caught the sight of his retreating back.

"Don't let him escape!" Donovan yelled out. Various people looked up from their respective desks but saw no one.

"Sergeant, who are you talking about?"

"That officer! He's an imposter!"

A man to her right scratched his head as he glasses slipped down his nose. "But, Sergeant, no one ran through here."

xxx

John huffed as he ran up the endless flight of stairs and across the roof. He was definitely not as in shape as he'd like to be. "Oh, bugger," John muttered as he realized he left his small gadget bag back in that alleyway. He needed to improvise and the only way down was to scale the building or jump. There was no way he could survive. He was stuck. Surely the actual policemen were beginning to swarm around the building, looking for him. John had no choice. He had to go back in if he wanted to get out.

The mercenary slipped back in and heard yells echoing up the stairwell. Great, he thought. John went inside the first door and walked over to the elevator in the dark, empty floor. A few back up lights were on, but for the most part, it was unlit. He pressed the down arrow and waited to the side. After what seemed like a couple of minutes, the doors slid open and two police officers slowly walked out with their guns at the ready. Hiding in the shadows, John grabbed the stolen baton that hung at his belt in one hand and the PAVA spray with the other. Extending the baton, he whacked one of the men in the head and sprayed the other simultaneously before they could react.

"Aughh! My eyes!"

John grabbed the man's radio. "He's on the roof! I repeat, he's on the roof!" he called in before running into the elevator. Once inside, John pressed the button for the lobby. When he reached his floor, the doors slid open and he calmly walked out.

"The roof! He's on the roof!" another policeman shouted, running past the blond 'officer' in the opposite direction.

"I've been ordered to surround the perimeter," John responded as more men headed up the stairs while others filed into the elevator.

The man nodded as he pressed the button for the roof. "Careful, mate. Sergeant Donovan thinks that the bloke's that homicidal Captain."

And with that, the doors slid close as John walked out the front door and back to the alleyway to collect his things, whistling a tune he had learned in the military.

xxx

Letting out a sigh, John rolled out his neck out and flopped backwards onto Harry's bed. There was no way he could go back to Sherlock's flat; Sebastian knew where that was. It was John's fault Sherlock was shot. For now, he needed to keep his distance if he wanted to keep the detective alive. The man was certainly no use to him if he ended up dead. This was between John and Moran, and no one else-well, other than the man Moran was working for.

Tired, John rubbed his eyes and attempted to sleep, but couldn't. Why did Sebastian reveal himself? What did he want? What did his superior want? After all these years...John shook his head. What an odd reunion. He scoffed and rolled over. They had been tortured _together_ in Afghanistan. Back then, they depended on each other for survival. It was either that or die at the hands of the enemy.

He remembered the enucleation he performed to remove Moran's impaled eyeball. He remembered crudely burning the flesh. He was no opthamologist; it was a miracle he hadn't killed the man. Half the time he didn't know what he was doing. John scraped by with what he could remember from his time in medical school which wasn't much.

He remembered having to beg their torturer to let him remove the eye. If it became infected, they would lose their most valuable source of information, he reasoned. John remembered punching Moran several times to knock him unconscious. He remembered the panic that welled up and grabbed his gut, his shaking hands that hovered above his superior's bloody face. He remembered the sting of the whip their captor slapped when he stalled.

He remembered half wishing he would just die.

That Moran would die with him. That there was no one for him back at home. That he was alone.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

The detective rolled his eyes at his brother's shouting as he laid on the couch. Mycroft thundered up the stairs and marched into the flat. "What do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock rolled over onto his side so his back faced his seething brother. "Go away, Mycroft. You're giving me a headache."

Mycroft ignored his brother and deftly sat down on an armchair, perching his umbrella to the side. "I was in a rather important meeting when the hospital called and informed me of your absence." He was met with silence.

"Get up. We're going back. You need more antibiotics. And we need to get that bullet out. If you die, I will never hear the end of it with mother."

"Oh, shut up. I've already taken care of the wound. Now stop pestering me and go start a war or something."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head at his brother's irritable mood. "One of these days, dear _baby brother_, you _will_ get killed."

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs to ask if they wanted tea. "No, no need, Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft is leaving," Sherlock answered back.

Mycroft stood up and picked up his umbrella. He knew why his brother was upset. "Forget about John, Sherlock. He won't be coming back, I imagine. Move on. Get another case." And with that, he left.

Meanwhile, Sherlock laid in silence, attempting to sleep when his text tone went off. He ignored it, but a second and third message immediately followed. Curious, he reached behind him and blindly fumbled for his phone on the coffee table.

"_Hello, Sherlock."_

"_We haven't met yet, but we will soon."_

"_Do you like games?"_

Sherlock hastily typed back an answer: "_Who are you?_ - SH"

"_Ah, ah, ah. In due time, Mr. Holmes, in due time."_

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up.

* * *

It was dark outside. John had remembered that he had left the code word in the brick wall which was a bad thing to leave around if he wanted to lie low. He had to leave Harry's house anyway, just in case the cops came snooping around, so he grabbed his things and left the house.

He rubbed his gloved hands and tucked them in his pockets after lowering the hood of his mercenary attire farther down his eyes. It was extremely cold. John shivered and cursed at himself for not grabbing another jacket. The street was fairly empty besides a few drunkards loudly loitering here and there. For the most part, no one wanted to venture out into the billowing wind. His mind wandered around until a rough voice broke the silence from a distance.

"Aye, pretty lady. Mind spendin' the night with a gent like me, yeah?"

On the other side of the street, a tall man with broad shoulders trailed a petite blonde woman. "Bugger off, please. I'm busy," she replied.

"C'mon. You're chattin' breeze, that's wot you're doin'. Just an hour? I know a nice gent like meself that's itchin' to meet ya." He smiled and caught the hood of his jacket as it began to slip off. John caught a glimpse of brown hair and a familiar earring glinting in the moonlight.

John slowed his pace to keep an eye out on the stranger. The woman turned around to flick the persistent man off. John raised his eyebrows and gaped. It was Mary Morstan, the journalist he had taken out on a date. It seemed almost an eternity ago.

"I said to piss off!"

"Aye, jam your hype, yeah?" The man raised his hands in defeat and began to walk away. Mary turned on her heel and quickened her pace.

John was about to leave himself, when the man suddenly turned around and pulled something out of his pocket. He aimed a gun at the back of Mary's head. In a split second, John raced across the street and rammed into the man right as the gun went off. Mary turned around at the commotion and screamed.

John grabbed the man's ear. On it hung a single, silver cross with a small skull and bones beneath it.

"Hey! Get off!" The man looked at his attacker. "You! Why are you her-"

John's fist connected with his face, immediately cutting him off.

"Who sent you?" John demanded as he kneeled to grab the mercenary's shirt.

"Stop-

John punched him again.

"-bloody hitting me for Christ's sake!" he shouted. John held his fist and got off of him. The man sat up and spat out blood before pinching his nose in an effort to quell the bleeding. "God," he said through a nasally voice. He looked around for his fallen gun, spotted it a few feet away, and reached over to pick it up. "I don't know his name. And if I did, I wouldn't be telling you, you tosser. I've got a rep to keep, you know."

John crossed his arms. "Did he say why he put a hit out on this woman?"

The other mercenary shrugged. "I dunno but I think you broke my nose, mate." He pretended to tuck the gun into the back of the edge of his trousers. John turned towards Mary and the other mercenary dropped his hand from his nose and aimed his gun at John's back.

"Sorry, Doctor, but I was paid good money."

A shot rang out, prompting Mary to scream and duck, grabbing her head. John's body hit the cement and silence lingered around the trio. Mary hoped to God that the man who had just saved her wasn't dead. If he was, then she would be too, in a second. But another second went by as did another, but nothing happened. She peeked one eye open. The man in front of her didn't move, so she reached a hand out to lift the hood. John's hand suddenly shot out and grabbed her wrist, prompting a small squeak from the journalist.

"Oh, thank God. I thought you died."

John groaned as he rolled over and sat up. He had knocked the wind from his lungs when he hit the floor.

_Poor bugger, _he thought as he stared at the mercenary's dead body. A clean hole was evident in the side of his left temple. John stood up and turned his head. A clean exit wound.

Moran. It had to be him.

A burst of panic surged through his body. "Take my hand! We're still in danger!" John extended a gloved hand towards Mary who took it without thinking. Fear swam in her eyes as she allowed the hooded man to lead her away.

"What's going on? Why are they after me?"

They ran in silence until John found an obscured alleyway that Moran couldn't have possibly shot through with his preferred sniping gun. The couple leaned on their knees, trying to catch their breaths.

"Wh-who are y-you?" Mary gasped out. She had an idea, but never having had the chance to meet the supposed vigilante, she just had to ask to confirm her suspicions.

John stood up straight and jumped upwards, catching the bar of the end of a fire escape that stood above them. He heaved himself up and continued upwards until he reached the roof.

"Hey, wait!" Mary called out.

John looked down and dialled 911 on a disposable phone he fished out of his bag."They call me The Good Doctor." And with that, he turned on his heel and left the dazed journalist behind, making sure to leave only when the distant sound of sirens made themselves known to the quiet streets of London.

* * *

**A/N:**Wow. I did not mean for the hiatus to be _that_ long. I apologize profusely!  
I could probably work for BBC Sherlock. I have their flair for long hiatuses. LOL  
I would say life got in the way, but isn't that just the author's way of saying, 'I was lazy'? Haha But things happened, then writer's block manifested big time.  
Thanks for being so patient. Reviews are always appreciated, but thanks for reading anyway!


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